so excited, so unslept

Dear George,

Someday, you will be sixteen. You'll fall in desperate, soul-crushing love and feel profoundly misunderstood and you'll live and die by some songs whose lyrics will later make you cringe. I will have long since been embarrassing you. You'll get drunk for the first time and deliberate over where your covert makeout sessions should be. You'll learn to drive -- and love driving away from me, no matter how good I am at this mothering shit. But oh my god, kid, is it going to be awesome. Nothing else feels like that age, so immersed in your ownness. Self-conscious but invincible. The world will be your oyster. 

And, too, someday (should this all go according to plan), you will be thirty. You'll be driving around with your baby in the backseat, asleep, and one of those cringe-worthy songs will come on. But instead of skipping it, letting it lie in your past with regrettable outfits and boys, you'll turn it up louder and sing along. 

Love,

mama