As The Kid likes to remind me (and thank me for, for some reason), he was born in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand.

Which means that this year, 2018, he is turning…you guessed it…18.

18.

Eighteen.

One-Eight.

Like, do you remember this? Because I sure do.

I literally feel like this was just the other day.

Nowadays, he’s 17 going on 18 and won’t let me take a picture of him without a ridiculous amount of sighing and complaining and fixing-his-hair first. This is the most recent one I have.

What’s this? It is in fact the day we went and got his learner’s permit. Because: he is driving. Or learning to, at least.

Driving.

Am I for real right now? I am.

Do you see how much taller than me he is? I mean, I’m not like overly blessed in the height department, but this is still ridiculous.

That is also, in case you were wondering…

Facial hair. Yes. Facial hair.

He told me the other day that he hates it when my friends comment on how big he’s getting, or how much older he looks. I don’t think he realizes how crazy the difference is to people that remember him as a kid, and then see him almost all grown up. It boggles my mind, and I see it every day. So basically, I told him to suck it up and be glad people care enough to comment.

At any rate, his birthday is in November. I’m teaching him to drive, and I feel like I am taking my life in my hands every time I do it. But I’d rather he learn from someone who cares about him than someone who’s just getting paid to show him the ropes.

So at the risk of offending his sense of pending actual adult-hood…

I can’t believe how much he’s grown.