My oldest son is fifteen.

Has been for …. oooooh … two and a halfish months now.

I’m not going to do the proverbial “How did that happen?” because, newsflash people, how it happens is that we, as a culture and community, have mutually agreed that on a certain date each year, as determined by a dating system that dates back some 2000 years or so, they have turned another year older.

We acknowledge this in various ways, but each year they are allocated a number that is based on our numeric system, and the number follows the one that they were the year before. They are not granted some arbitrary number, or, say, told they are one year old one year, and tree the next, followed by purple, and then pancakes.

After a number of these years, let’s say, 15 of them, they are labelled “fifteen”. It happens with every age (as we have agreed to call it); one, seven, fifteen, twenty three … etc.

Not in that order, obviously. Well, technically, yes, in that order, but all the other numbers that we use in a certian order also reside between those numbers.

So, there you go. That’s how my son became 15.

Yours will do exactly the same. Except if it’s your daughter. She will not turn into a 15-year-old son. Or maybe she will. Who am I to decide?

I’m not even confronted by the concept he is fifteen. You know, in an “I’m not old enough to be the mother of a fifteen year old”. Because, well, I am. Goes back to that whole being given a number/age after each period of 365 days, with an additional day added every four years.

I’m old enough, according to that system, and, of course, my biological ovarial type systems, to have a fifteen year old.

What I am, in my own head, is still fifteen myself.

It’s like my brain stopped there. That’s on a good day. Some days, I’m still around eight years old. Maybe even six.

I jump on beds and climb trees and do cartwheels and I think they’re

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