Thirteen Years

This weekend is J's birthday. He turned thirteen, a real live teenager.

Here comes the cute baby picture montage:


Yes. One year we all had cow suits. I'll save everyone possible blindness and not include all three of us in said suits.

The cap-with-the -rim-turned-up shot.

Got a bunny! We still have that bunny and as much as the dog wants it, it is fiercely protected.

This one is from back when I was developing my own film and could only do black and white. There is a three-day festival here in August. Here's J in his outfit. Those straw sandles were cool for about five minutes.

Hamming it up for the camera on his first day of kindergarden.

The child has always loved drumming (still does!). Back in the day he couldn't pass a pair of chopsticks without beating out a tune. Don't ask me what he was thinking with the measuring tape over the ears. This really sums up his personality.

And now...thirteen years old and as tall as his dad. The yin-yang of hair thing is quite impressive.

He really is a fantastic kid. And my best friend. He understands more than anyone this whole dual culture thing and how difficult it can be and is always willing to lend and ear or offer advice. He's quite wise for his years. Thirteen years!

Now, I've always wanted to be a writer. A lot of people say that. My father thought that was the silliest idea he'd ever heard and was quite effective at squashing the big dream out of me. That is until J was born.

When I was a child it seemed all the mothers were stay-at-home-moms. I thought mine was the best, always ready with jugs of iced Kool-Aide and homemade cookies. She also made wedding cakes on the side. Everyone was always going on and on about these gorgeous cakes. I was very proud.

However, I've never been very handicrafty like her. I was shouldering this writing bug. So when J was born I decided to give it a try for real. Instead of telling everyone 'I'm a writer' I'd actually learn how. And do it. That was thirteen years ago almost to the day.

Flash forward to two weeks ago when I recieved an e-mail from a rocking publisher that wants to publish my collection of short stories. The real deal. I set out to find an agent right away because I have also been studying the business side of writing for over a decade now and I know pretty much how I want to proceed.

And then last Wednesday--three days before J's birthday--I got a phone call from a big name New York agent. I won't go into detail about my nearly puking, my flutterly voice, and my wonked out English, but I will say he offered representation. I am over the moon.

But what makes me the happiest is that J is so impressed, so proud. Hey, maybe you can't put buttercream and roses on a book and eat it but it's still a marvelous thing.

Like I told J, "Now, I can tell everyone that I'm not just sitting on my ass all day." I paused. He looked at me. "Okay, maybe I am sitting on my ass all day. But still!"