For about a month Mark has been telling me how many days until he's 18. He does it because I don't like it and like teenagers everywhere, he derives pleasure in teasing his mother.
I don't like thinking about him being 18, an adult, grown and flown.
It was bad enough when Braeden turned 18 and then Emma did.
But Mark's my baby. For years he was my sidekick (or I was his, I don't know which.) Being Mark's mother has not always been particularly easy, but loving him has always been very easy.
Talking about his future plans makes me quake a little inside but ships weren't made for safe harbors and neither was he.
(Right about now I wanted to post some pictures of Mark but blogger does what blogger wants and this morning post pictures is not on her approved list of activities apparently.)
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