He's eighteen. It was just a moment ago that he was my sweet, chubby, curly-crowned toddler. Clutching tightly to the hem of my dress he followed my every step. All day. Every. Day. More times than I can count I've placed him in that sink to scrub away the dirt...reached out to grab hold of another love bouquet...glued together the bread necklace that kept losing pieces - I wore it proudly anytime I went out. I've cleaned up cheese and Oreos he left in the most unexpected places. Watched the thrill spread his face as he opened a box of tap lights...learned to ride a unicycle...got his license. I've grabbed on for dear life as he spun me around country roads in a yellow truck named Buttermilk...and I've listened to that singing Billy Bass until I knew I was going to be committed. He's always been the one who found joy in the peculiar. Always the one who got me - and made me roar with laughter. We're so much alike and yet very different. Now we're he