I wonder how much longer I will be able to get away with writing about him on the internet

I know, I talk about my kids too much. And Jack, in particular, sees a lot of print. But guess what?

Pretty soon he'll be a teenager.

His legs are longer than mine. His feet are bigger than mine.

and stinkier.

His body is all elbows and knees and sharp angles. He and I have the same color eyes, similar skin type. Wait, that's not completely true: his skin is better than mine. When I was his age, I was all freckle and pimple and perpetually sunburned nose but he has just the right amount of freckles and a tendency toward browning in the sun.

He routinely asks us to check his armpits for signs of hair growth.

Moving to St. George has been transformative for him, for all of my kids. His slump-shouldered, hesitant walk has been replaced by a confidant swagger. The people in our new community, particularly the children, are some of the most open hearted, accepting, hilarious people I have known. He is in and out of the house from the moment he arrives home from school till bedtime.

But he is almost a teenager, and with that stage of development comes emotions that are hard to understand and even harder to articulate and navigate. I remember what it was like. I remember crying my way through six years of my youth. Literally, crying Every. Single. Day.

Last night he got up in tears an hour after I had issued the "lights out" command.

"Mom," he cried. "I'm so sad."

"What's the matter?" I asked, turning off 30 Rock (feeling thankful for DVR) and reaching for him.

"I'm not sure," he gulped as he folded his angles and elbows up like a giant grasshopper on my lap. "Can I just sit with you for awhile?"

"You bet," I grunted under his weight.

A moment passed as we sat in the dark and I cradled my manchild, stroking his hair and picturing illustrations from one of our oft-read picture books.

After awhile he started talking. "I feel like I never see anyone in our family anymore. Well, like I never do anything with you guys. Everyone is just always off doing their own thing. And, Creed. I just feel jealous of him. I don't know why. I love him, but I'm jealous."

The thing is, I had been feeling the same disconnect in our family. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from pointing out that HE is the one that is always running around the neighborhood with his friends leaving all of us home pining after our Big Brother. I'm still stunned by the level of emotional maturity it takes to a) recognize that you're sad or jealous and b) vocalize it in an intelligent manner. I've known grown people who don't know how to do that!

We talked, I validated and reassured him. He eventually said "I feel better. Thanks mom," and I could hear the smile behind the words. Then the request "Could I . . . ?"

"Yes. Go get in my bed. I'll be there in a little while."

Adolescence is a roller coaster that lasts for years. The peaks can be exhilarating and the valleys can feel unfathomable. I remember. Oh, my dear babies, I remember what it was like. I promise I'll do my best to help you, eventually, disembark the ride relatively unscathed. Just a little bit scathed.

In the meantime, I will always be available for a snuggle and until you ask me not to (well, until I get caught) I'll keep writing about it.