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Creative Minority Reader

Fourteen is Rough

This is truly beautiful writing from Ebeth about her son's birthday.

Dear Patrick,

How happy are you this morning? We've put Fourteen behind us! It is my well-considered opinion that Fourteen is the most miserable age in the world for boys. And their mothers. And since, with you, everything is done in the superlative, Fourteen was pretty much the awfulest wasn't it?

Your Fourteenth birthday found you at odds with the world and me on bedrest, fairly powerless to help you navigate. We were knocked from our usual positions--with me behind the steering wheel and you navigating and entertaining in the seat beside me--and life was a bit chaotic for the first season of your Fourteenth year. I never thought I'd miss driving to soccer practice, but I did. Because I missed you. I missed the conversations that always began, "Hey Mom..." And I had a sense those conversations would never be the same.
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