“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You" - Dr. Seuss You never think it’s going to happen and then, all of a sudden, it does.

Today is my youngest son’s 15th birthday.

My baby.  The little guy who wanted to be home schooled, who loved Winnie the Pooh and penguins and spent hours on the floor of his bedroom playing countless games of Beanie Baby Baseball.  The guy who promised me he would marry me when he got older even though he was never, ever going to grow up.  The guy whose prepubescent voice still greets callers on our answering machine because even though it has since dropped several octaves, I just can’t bear to let it go.  That guy is turning 15 today.

A couple of weeks ago, as I always do, I brought up the subject of a birthday party.

“Mom, I’m a little old for birthday parties, don ‘t you think?”

Blink.

“You’re never too old for a birthday party,” I said defiantly.

“I think I am,” he said with an equal amount of conviction.

“Well I don’t,” I repeated.  “You’ve always wanted to have one before.  I don’t understand why you don’t want to at least have a few friends over.  I mean, we don’t have to call it a birthday party.  We can just say it’s a get together.”

“A get together with birthday cake?” he said smugly.

“If you want.”

“I’ll think about it,” he conceded.  “I’ll think about it.”

And so we let it go, for a little while.

There were so many of them.  Winnie the Pooh and Thomas the Tank Engine.  Cakes with penguins and baseball diamonds and piñatas that spilled Tootsie Rolls and Jolly Ranchers all over the driveway. Midnight bowling and large, inflatable jump houses, water balloon baseball and enormous six foot reptiles that slithered on the laps of squealing 5 year-olds.  Hot dogs and hamburgers and watermelon and pounds and pounds of orange, cheesy goldfish.

Trick candles and wrapping paper and handmade cards decorated with magic marker and glitter.  Swim parties and slumber parties and trips to the party supply store to pick up the little colored bags to be filled with candy.  Jack Horner Pie prizes tied to the ends of little white strings.

Countless hours of planning, cleaning and organizing and the careful squeezing of balloon bouquets into the back of the mini-van.  Piles of wrapping paper and paper plates and finding juice boxes stuffed elegantly into places no one would ever look for them.  The vacuuming of orange, cheesy goldfish, crushed unceremoniously into the carpet.  And when it is over, when the children have all gone home and the house is finally quiet, you sit down, exhausted and spent, wondering why on earth you spent all that time preparing for an event that lasted just a few hours.

You never think it's going to end.  And then one day it does.

“Did you want to do anything for your birthday?” I queried the soon to be birthday boy a couple of days later.  “And if you do, don’t you think we should make some kind of an invitation so your friends know what’s going on?”

“I’ll just send them a text message,” he mumbled back.  “But Mom, it’s not going to be a big thing.  Promise me it’s not going to be a big thing.”

“I promise,” I agreed, crossing my fingers behind my back so he couldn’t see my intended deception.

A couple of days ago, I wondered aloud if he had talked to his friends yet.

“No.  But I will.”

“OK,” I said biting my lower lip hard.  Leave it alone, mother.  Leave it alone.  I’m learning.  Slowly.  But I am learning.

“Do you want a cake?” I said gently last night.

“Yep.”

“Ice cream or regular.”

“Ice Cream.”

OK.  Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Anything else?” I queried, feeling like we were suddenly on a roll.  My mind was racing.  I checked my watch.  There was still enough time to make it to the party store before they closed.

“Maybe a piñata,” he answered back, sounding sincere.

“Really?” Mothers can be so gullible.

His face broke into a big grin.  “Got ya,”

Happy Birthday buddy.  Mum's the word.