Seventeen.
SEVENTEEN.
How in the actual hell did that happen?
Today, my chubby-cheeked cherub turns 17 years old. It’s his golden birthday, which seems fitting because Owen has always operated under the assumption that the world revolves around him. Not in an entitled sort of way, necessarily. More in a “I’ll get there when I get there, Mom, and you can calm down because it’s not that serious” kind of way.
And honestly? That pretty much sums up the boy I’ve been raising for the last seventeen years.
But before he became the smart-mouthed, fiercely opinionated, adventurous, occasionally anxiety-inducing young man he is today, he was a baby with cheeks so spectacular they deserved their own zip code.
And he was in absolutely no hurry to make his grand entrance.
A Halloween Baby Who Had Other Plans
Owen was originally due on Halloween. A Halloween baby! How fun would that have been?
Well, apparently, my obstetrician, Dr. Boehm, had other ideas after seeing those anatomy scans.
Owen was measuring weeks ahead of schedule, prompting the good doctor to tell me, “If he arrives on Halloween, you’re pushing out a 9-pound baby. Maybe closer to ten.”
Nine pounds. Wait…TEN pounds?
I had already delivered his older brother, Dawson, so I knew a thing or two about childbirth. I did not, however, have any desire to deliver a baby who apparently thought he was training for the NFL offensive line.
His due date was moved to October 22, but Owen had his own calendar, his own agenda, and apparently a very firm opinion about when he would make his debut.
Five days early, we would eventually learn. But not without putting his mother through a little psychological warfare first.
By October 15, we were convinced he was coming. I was having Braxton-Hicks contractions every day. My legs would buckle when I walked. I needed to be induced because my sciatic nerve was firing thanks to the location of his rather substantial little head. My blood sugar was spiking, and my blood pressure was inching upward. Thankfully, I wasn’t experiencing the preeclampsia I’d had with Dawson, but my body was clearly ready to evict its tiny tenant.
Except my body wasn’t cooperating.
I wasn’t dilating. We waited. We hoped. We waited some more.
Surely October 16 would be the day! Dawson was born on September 16, 2004, so having their birthdays fall exactly one month apart would have been pretty cool.
But no.
Owen apparently looked at that plan and thought, Absolutely not. I have my own timeline, thank you very much.
Things progressed, then stalled. Progressed again, then stalled again.
If there was a way to make an already exhausted, uncomfortable, hormonal pregnant woman question every decision she had ever made, this kid was determined to find it.
And he wasn’t even born yet.
The Great Arrival of October 17
In the early hours of October 17, labor finally got underway in earnest.
I remember being nervous. Not the cute, sentimental kind of nervous you see in movies, where a woman squeezes her husband’s hand and whispers about how excited she is to meet her baby.
No. I remember wanting to run out of that hospital room.
I was starving. My contractions were intense. And at some point, the epidural apparently decided it had fulfilled its contractual obligations and broke down on the job.
Fantastic.
Nothing says magical motherhood moment quite like being exhausted, hungry, in pain, and wondering whether you can somehow make a break for the parking lot while your unborn child continues to use your pelvis as a personal recliner.
But eventually, after all the waiting and stalling and false starts, Owen arrived.
Eight pounds, three ounces. Ten fingers. Ten toes.
And then I saw his face.
Those cheeks.
Oh, those glorious, kissable, absolutely ridiculous cheeks.
He was the most adorable little cherub I had ever seen. Round, soft, perfect little cheeks that practically begged to be kissed approximately eight hundred times a day.
I was smitten.
Completely and hopelessly smitten.
And as it turns out, those cheeks were only the beginning of the trouble this kid would cause me.
Because somewhere between the delivery room and the present day, that stubborn little baby grew into a young man who still prefers to do things in his own time, on his own terms, and according to his own carefully constructed internal schedule.
Apparently, seventeen years of parenting have not convinced him that his mother might occasionally know what she’s talking about.
I remain hopeful.
The Libra Scales, the Courtroom Debates, and the Boy Who Knows Everything
If you believe in astrology, Owen’s Libra sign makes a whole lot of sense.
Fairness matters to him. A lot.
He has strong convictions, and he isn’t afraid to defend them. He roots for the underdog. He notices when something isn’t right. He wants things to be fair, even when fairness might not be the most convenient option.
And if you happen to disagree with his assessment of what is fair?
Buckle up.
Owen loves to debate. He loves to argue. He loves to examine a situation from every possible angle, identify every flaw in your reasoning, and then explain—in considerable detail—why you are wrong.
I have occasionally wondered whether I gave birth to a child or accidentally enrolled myself in a seventeen-year legal deposition.
He would make an impressive lawyer. I tell him this all the time.
His response?
“I don’t want to sit in a courtroom all the time, and memorizing legal stuff sounds tiring.”
Well, excuse me for suggesting a career that would allow you to get paid for arguing with people. I thought I was onto something.
He would also make a fantastic teacher. The way he retains information and shares it with others is remarkable. His memory for facts is downright astounding, and he has a knack for explaining things in ways that make people want to listen.
He’s smart. Sometimes too smart, if you ask me.
His grades reflect it, too. He can pull off A’s without what appears to be much effort, which is frankly offensive to someone who had to study her ass off to accomplish the same thing.
I love that for him.
I resent it a little for me.
But mostly, I love watching that brain of his work. He’s curious, observant, sharp, and capable of remembering details I swear I mentioned once, approximately four years ago, while standing in the kitchen.
Meanwhile, I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there.
Life is humbling.
“It’s Not That Serious”
Of all the things I admire about Owen, one of the biggest is his patience.
This kid has a level of patience I can only dream of possessing.
He doesn’t get exasperated easily. He doesn’t seem to feel the need to turn every inconvenience into a catastrophe. He can take a step back, assess a situation, and remind himself that not everything deserves a reaction.
His motto?
“It’s not that serious.”
I would like to report that this philosophy has rubbed off on me.
It has not.
I can turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown internal congressional hearing before breakfast. Owen, meanwhile, can look at the same situation and wonder why everyone is getting so worked up.
Sometimes I want to shake him.
Sometimes I want to take notes.
Because here’s the thing about raising kids: You spend so much time trying to teach them how to navigate the world that you don’t always realize they’re quietly teaching you how to navigate it, too.
Owen reminds me that not every disagreement needs to be won. Not every problem needs to be solved this instant. Not every frustrating situation deserves the energy we give it.
And not everything is, in fact, that serious.
It’s an admirable quality, especially in a world that seems determined to keep everyone perpetually outraged.
I hope he never loses that ability to stay grounded when everything around him gets loud.
Although I reserve the right to be deeply annoyed when he deploys that philosophy in response to something I, his mother, have determined is absolutely serious.
There are limits to my personal growth.
The Adventurous Side of Owen—and My Eventually Bald Head
Of course, Owen isn’t all thoughtful debates, impressive grades, and philosophical reminders to relax.
He also has a wild, adventurous streak that occasionally makes me wonder whether he’s actively trying to shorten my lifespan.
He takes risks. He wants to experience things. He has a curiosity about the world that can send him headfirst into situations that leave his mother wondering if she should start increasing her blood pressure medication preemptively.
I love that he wants to live. I love that he wants to explore, push boundaries, and experience things for himself.
I do not love the part where I have to watch him do it.
There is a very specific kind of torture reserved for being the mother of a teenager. You spend years teaching a child to be independent, brave, confident, and capable of making decisions.
Then they actually start doing those things, and suddenly you want to wrap them in bubble wrap, lock the doors, and tell them the outside world has been canceled until further notice.
You want them to spread their wings.
You just don’t want them to fly too close to the sun, jump off anything questionable, or make you picture seventeen different disaster scenarios before you’ve finished drinking your morning cappuccino.
Owen has a gift for making me proud and terrified at the exact same time.
I suppose that is part of the job description.
Still, I hope he understands that every time I worry, every time I ask another question, every time I remind him to be careful, it comes from a place of love.
An occasionally overbearing, sometimes exhausted, perpetually concerned kind of love.
But love all the same.
Seventeen, But Still My Baby
Here is the part that sneaks up on you.
You spend seventeen years raising a child, and somehow you can still look at him and see the baby he used to be.
I look at Owen today, and I see a young man. I see intelligence, humor, convictions, curiosity, patience, and the beginnings of the life he will build for himself.
I see someone who will eventually have to make his own decisions, establish his own values, choose his own path, and figure out what kind of man he wants to be.
I see someone who doesn’t need me to solve every problem for him anymore.
And then, in the next instant, I see those cheeks.
Those same chubby cheeks I kissed when he was a baby. The little face I stared at in disbelief after all those hours of labor. The tiny human who took his sweet time getting here and has spent the last seventeen years reminding me that he will do things when he’s good and ready.
I still see that little boy.
And sometimes, I wish I could go back for just a moment.
Not because I want to change anything. Not because I want to hold him back from growing up. But because motherhood has this cruel little habit of making you miss a moment while you’re still living it.
You can be exhausted from the sleepless nights and wish for the day your baby finally sleeps through the night. Then one day, he’s seventeen, and you would give almost anything to hold that sleepy little body in your arms again.
You can spend years teaching your child to think independently, speak up for himself, and stand firm in his convictions. Then he does exactly that, and you realize he doesn’t need you to be his whole world anymore.
You can count down the days until they become more independent, only to discover that independence is both the goal and the heartbreak.
Nobody really prepares you for that part.
They tell you children grow up quickly. They tell you to cherish the little things. They tell you that someday you’ll miss the chaos.
And you nod, because of course you understand.
But you don’t. Not really.
Not until you look at your seventeen-year-old son and realize that the baby whose arrival you once impatiently awaited is now a young man with his own opinions, his own ambitions, his own sense of humor, and his own plans for the future.
And you’re standing there wondering how the hell time managed to move so quickly while you were busy living it.
Happy Golden Birthday, Owen
Owen, I hope you know how much I love you.
I love your intelligence, even when you use it to argue circles around me.
I love your convictions, even when we don’t agree.
I love your sense of fairness and the way you stand up for people who need someone in their corner.
I love your humor, your adventurous spirit, your patience, and your ability to remind me that sometimes, things really aren’t that serious.
I love the way you retain information and share what you know. I love watching you figure things out. I love that you have a mind of your own and that you aren’t afraid to use it.
I love the young man you’re becoming, even when I occasionally want to put you back in a car seat and tell you that you’re not old enough to make your own decisions.
And yes, I love you even when your risk-taking makes me question whether my hair will survive your teenage years.
You are funny. You are cool. You are smart. You are stubborn as hell.
You are compassionate in ways that matter, and you have a sense of fairness that I hope never leaves you.
You have your whole life ahead of you, and I hope you fill it with things that challenge you, people who love you, experiences that broaden your perspective, and opportunities to make a difference.
I hope you never lose your curiosity. I hope you keep asking questions. I hope you keep standing up for what you believe in while remaining willing to listen when someone offers a different perspective.
I hope you keep your patience, your humor, and your ability to recognize when something isn’t worth getting worked up over.
And I hope you always remember that you don’t have to have your entire life figured out at seventeen. You have time. Take it. Find your way. Make mistakes (within reason 😉). Learn. Grow. Just maybe try to give your mother a few fewer heart attacks along the way.
Seventeen years ago, you took your sweet time entering this world.
Today, you are still doing things on your own terms.
Some things never change.
And while I know that my job is to keep preparing you for a world where you won’t always need me, I hope you never outgrow the part of yourself that knows you can come home, put your feet up, raid the refrigerator, and let your mother fuss over you a little.
Because no matter how old you get, how much you learn, how many arguments you win, or how far your adventures take you, you will always be my boy.
My chubby-cheeked cherub.
My stubborn, brilliant, hilarious, occasionally terrifying Owen.
My baby.
Happy 17th birthday, kiddo. Happy golden birthday.
I am so damn proud of you.
And just so we’re clear, I reserve the right to worry about you for the rest of my natural life.
It’s kind of my thing.
Besides, it’s not that serious.
Unless it’s you.
Then, apparently, it is. ❤️
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