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Ian is here for spring break. I am reveling in his intellectual energy. He flew in overnight, from Colorado, and had to sleep on the couch when he arrived because we had weekend houseguests staying in his room.

When I came downstairs in the morning, both his little sisters were climbing all over him. He looked sleepy and rumpled, but happy. As soon as he saw me, he said, “Hi! It’s good to see you! Look what I’m reading.”

What he’s reading is a 500 page biography of Trotsky. Which he wanted to talk about at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Oh! to be 15 again.

Seriously, I would never be 15 again for all the wisdom and hot sex in the world. OK, maybe for all of it, but certainly not for any amount of it I had access to when I was 15.

But I love it that he is 15, and that’s he’s sharing so much of his discovery of the wide world and all the cool stuff in it with me. When we’re hanging around the house, he just talks at me all day. About his Shadowrun game, about the economy, about Trotsky, about Chinese history, about the Mormon kids at his school. Half of what he says is either flat-out factually wrong or adorable in its naivete. But he’s talking to me!!!

My little girls talk, talk, talk at me all day long and by dinnertime I’m praying they had an off-switch. But I’m painfully aware of the monosyllabic fugue teenagers can drift into, and every day that goes by with the words still flowing between me and my teenager feels like an epic win.


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A little bird told me…

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