In just over three months, he’ll turn 11 years old. Which means that he’s not really a child, but still not old enough to be called a young man. He no longer hides behind me when a new person walks up. He smiles his boyish smile, puts his hand out and makes eye contact with the person he’s meeting. Most of the time. His knobby knees are awkwardly beautiful. He’s been wearing deodorant for the past couple of months but his body doesn’t need it. He can take a shower, get dressed and feed himself breakfast, but still doesn’t mind it when I lay out his clothes for him. He ‘s a tremendous reader but still enjoys cuddling up next to me and his little brother while I read If You Give A Moose A Muffin. This in-between stage is where he lives. I don’t mind it because I love to see the young man he is becoming. I love it when I am pleasantly surprised by an act of kindness he does for someone without even being asked. I even love how he teaches me something about the Solar System that I didn’t know. Yet he is still not wise enough or self-controlled enough to make all of his decisions. He needs me. And quite frankly, I need him.