It must have something to do with my distaste for men in the wake of a profound, life-altering heartbreak, but it is making me sick watching my sweet little blond boy become a man. In the past month or two, his feet have become gigantic, he is almost visibly getting taller every day, dark, sinister hair is appearing and his voice is deepening to such an extent that I thought a man was in the house the other day, and even shouted down the stairs: “What man is in this house right now?”

It was my sweet boy, laughing mannishly while playing XBox Live with his friends.

He’s a month away from his 14th birthday, and I want the clock to stop RIGHT NOW, thanks very much. I have been hugging and nuzzling and clutching that boy to my bosom for 13 years, and he is now eye-to-eye with me. Those days are almost over.

It hurts, oh how it hurts. There is something much more dramatic about a boy’s transformation into a man than a girl’s transformation into a woman, at least in my family. My daughter’s development happened slowly and gently and graciously. My son’s has been rapid and shocking. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit!