13.

A prime number.

A baker’s dozen.

The number of stripes on the American flag.

Taylor Swift’s favorite number.

AND…A TEENAGER.

Only 3 years until driving age.  5 years until graduation.  9 years until (theoretically) he is out of my house as a full-fledged educated adult.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

This milestone is hitting different.

Age 5: school age.  You are finally through the Terrble Twos, and the Thundering Threes.  And they finally go off with their backpack that is so big it might swallow them to learn how to read and write and add and subtract.

Age 10: double digits.  A whole decade.  Upper elementary.  Not a little kid, but not quite a middle schooler.

Age 13: middle school. Hormones.  Emotional highs and lows. Figuring out friendships.  Discovering that maybe girls don’t really have cooties.

I see the changes already.  Wanting a new hairstyle (it’s called the lettuce 🤷🏻‍♀️).  Spending more time alone in his room.  Quicker to be irked.

And yet, I still catch glimpses of the little boy who would crawl in my bed at 5am with his lovey and get a few more hours of sleep cuddles up next to me.  Now, he drags himself downstairs in the morning, two inches shy of matching my height, leaning his head on my shoulder for a hug to help him muster the energy for a Monday morning.  The lovey is gone, but that same tenderness is still there – just wrapped in longer limbs and a little more attitude.

A wise mentor once told me not to fear the teenage years — they might not be that bad. I don’t think mine were. I don’t recall butting heads with my parents (other than when I backed the minivan into my dad’s BMW… but that’s a story for another day). They set reasonable rules, I stuck to them.

So I’m choosing to believe this chapter won’t be as scary as everyone warns.
What no one tells you about 13 is that it’s not just them changing — it’s you, too.
You start to loosen your grip and realize how much of parenting is just learning to let go, one inch at a time.

I’m more of a coach now, less hands-on. Keeping tabs from afar. Teaching study skills and how to write a decent email. Lending an ear when he verbally vomits all his frustrations. I can’t fix everything, but I can give him perspective. I can give him more rope to be independent — while still being there when he falls, helping him get back up and keep moving forward.

It’s easier and harder at the same time.

I still hope we stay close — that I’ll always be the place he can come back to, even as the world gets bigger and louder. Because thirteen isn’t just his milestone. It’s mine — learning to love the growing up as much as I loved the growing in.