On Sunday, we drove to my aunt's house to celebrate my cousin's 18th birthday.
I met Kyle when he was just a few months old and I was 16. I held him in a rocker and wondered at how tiny he was.
When I was 17, I moved in with my aunt, uncle and then 18-month-old cousin. We were best buds. I took him to daycare, spiked his hair after his baths and taught him to say "psychedelic". Our favorite song was "Love Shack" which I blasted as I drove him around town in my VW Bug. I took him to listen to Ray Bradbury speak at the library's ribbon cutting, played with him at the park and, when he was older, took him to the aquarium. I watched Pinocchio over and over and over again.
I went to his first talent show, watched him at a couple tee ball games and listened in amusement as he explained to me that my ex-boyfriend wasn't a bad guy, just not right for me. (He was six.)
As the years passed, the little boy who finger painted with me on butcher paper spread across my kitchen grew into a man who towers over me. Now, it's Kyle who holds my babies. It's Kyle who patiently plays games with another little red head. Kyle who bends down to hug me.
It's a very odd experience; a prelude to watching my own son grow.
I can't believe he's 18.
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