My nine-year old son shrugged my arm off his shoulders with a glare as we walked to the bus stop. We weren't at the bus stop, mind you, just walking down the street, with no one else in sight. I get it. It's how he prepares to leave home and take on the ferocious responsibilities of his day—recess, lunch, being a student, a friend and, above all, cool. Fourth grade is hardly fun and games. The kids are no longer sheltered by their "little kid" dazzle with the world; they've begun to see the bigger picture and recognize the power of the social pecking order, jockeying for their places like half crazed bumper car drivers. The refinements have yet to come.

It's hard to be successful out there and not question your status as mama's boy. Adam said as much the other night when I took a chance and gently lamented the loss of the little boy who'd cuddle up to me on the couch without a second thought. He thought for a moment and said, "I sort of wish I could go back, too."