I read a lot of mom blogs.  I hang out with a lot of moms.  Thanks to Little Ms. Whoopsie-Pants, I can still roll with all the preschool moms.  And this time, I'm a respectable age to do it.  But I find that in most situations, blog-related or otherwise, I am the odd man out in one small aspect: I have  kids whose shoes and deodorant I can borrow, too.

It's not as common as I would have thought to have a rather large age gap in your children.  Though some of my favorite blogs are written by mothers of tweens, I find myself greatly outnumbered in the blogosphere.  And in real life, most mothers of kids in puberty have at least 10 years on me.  And less crap in their face.

I am an island.  I am okay with this.

I love reading along as you all navigate through nursing, laughing as you attempt potty training, sighing as you send your darling little ones off to school for the first time.  Because I've done all that already a few times over, and I remember it, and it's no big deal for me three kids in, but your stories help me hold on to the memory of how terrifying and thrilling and gut-wrenching all of those days were.  It makes savour it a little more with my third.  It's a win-win.

I talk about "walking in" on the boys, and you all cringe, but few of you can ever fathom that day.  I don't even mention how I can wear my oldest son's shoes if I'm in a pinch, or how his father has officially started handing him down sweaters, mainly because those are his stories, not mine, but partly because that's not the world I inhabit online.  I swim in the seas of diapers and teething and temper tantrums.  And I'm happy there.

But today I am here to tell you that as much as I love hearing about your children teething, as much as I adore the good laugh I get recalling those late nights, the tooth-poop, the 106 degree fever with each tooth and the subsequent 10 ER trips, the frozen peaches and the gnawed on nipples, the clove oil, the drool all over the new suede coats, the rash on the baby's little bottom much as I want to commiserate and lend you advice and tell you it will all be okay, I am officially out.  You're on your own, guys and dolls.


Because almost none of you are even close to knowing the pain that comes with your precious little angel losing his first molar.

I spent months on that molar.  That molar is lullabies and cuddles in my shoulder and little sweet tears and stories and love.  I loved that little molar.  It signaled his transition from tiny baby to person, nurser to eater, the end of me and the beginning of him.

I take him to the dentist, they put in the sealants and they say things like, Someday, when he's elllllleeeeeevennnn... because 11 is something far far away and untouchable and unimaginable.  Except that it's here.  It's right here under his pillow, waiting to get changed in for a fiver.
I know I'm being ridiculous.  I know that I've already crossed this threshold with him a million times, but something about this just kicked me in the gut today.  Maybe it's because I read all about you all and your little ones with their little milestones and I forget that it wasn't last month, it was last decade.  It was a whole decade ago, and that tooth is never coming out again, never going under a pillow again.


But, in all honesty, I am kind of glad I never have to pay him for at least that one tooth ever again.  The boy, he's bleeding me dry.  Five bucks, my ass.