Thirteen...

In a few short days this house will officially be full of teenagers.  Your brother, already fourteen, your stepfather acting sixteen, and you, finally, thirteen.

We have come a long way, you and I.  Every day a new stage, a new challenge.  From your sensitivity to light and sounds, textures and tastes, to wearing rain boots everywhere, in every season, we have figured it out, slowly... painfully... and made our way to here.  Truth be told I didn't think you'd make it to the teen years, I thought one of us would break at some point along the way and throw in the towel.  But what neither of us could ever know is that the emotions that fuel us both exponentially magnified our ability to deal with whatever came our way, and left us stronger and more able to fight, after of course, two Advil and a good solid nap.

I see that face of yours.  Round and slightly freckled, your deep brown eyes, giant smile, and I'd be amiss to not say that you look a lot like your father. Your quick wit, sarcasm, and charming your way out of anything, reminds me of why I married him and stayed for far too long.  It would be easy to say that the frustration I feel is magnified by your physical similarities, but it is not.  Because while his genetics are there, I have raised you, and all the qualities I adore and loathe about you, are the ones I have struggled with myself, my whole life.

Our  compassion, creative thinking, and inventiveness could change the world, if it was not held back by our temper, moodiness, stubbornness, and futile defiance.  Focused and untamed, you can move mountains, or dig in your heels and create a trench it could swallow a small village. Your passion and creativity is like lightning in a bottle.  Opened carefully your light will be blinding but beautiful, but left capped will become volatile, leaving shards of glass in it's wake.  If you spend a quarter of the energy doing instead of resisting, you'd defy logic in what you could accomplish, and I'd be far less exhausted.

I suppose that's quintessential essence of the teen years though, the testing, the moodiness, the defiance.  I get it.  I'm annoying.  I am always bugging you, constantly on your case, and forever just... there. In. Your. Face.  Just like Grammie was in mine. Believing I want you to be perfect, you dig in to become everything imperfect, making everything an argument, as that day's chosen ultimate act of defiance. But you are smarter than I was, as I rebelled in the typical teenage ways.  Your rebellion is staying up late reading books, refusing to cut your hair, and failing out of Math class for by refusing to do your homework.  Homework, which takes you all of 10 minutes to complete, because the class is far below your ability.  Your rebellion is calculated, each step like a well thought out chess match, waiting out the next move but ultimately setting your self up for the win, not the win you're capable of, but a win none the less.

There is a fine line between teenage angst and needing medication.  We often straddle that line, and I struggle with it everyday.  Had your father gotten help, had his mother been present in his younger years, maybe he would not have become the man that he was.  I am present whether you want me to be or not.  I will make you eat, you will grow, and you will be strong.  I will let you fail, but I will not fail you.  You are capable of great things, Youngest. Fueled by lighting and lava there is nothing you can not overtake and conquer. Your perfect imperfection will someday change the world, but ultimately it will be up to you if it is as a natural disaster, or a natural wonder.