Raj Rani is the only one who calls him "baby" anymore.
When you're a new parent, people warn you about how fast children grow up, and it's true. But what they fail to tell you is how dramatic the changes are from one stage to the next. It is like the child they used to be has gone missing.
I can go years without seeing my cousins in New Zealand, and we don't change much, not in looks or manner. We're basically still the same people.
It's different with children. Kids can change at lightning speed, and without an announcement. The child at the breakfast table can be a stark contrast to the one who sat in his chair at dinner just the night before, even if he is wearing the same pajamas.
Where's the baby? I don't know. I mean, on this particular night, Sawyer is already home, allegedly working on his homework though ear buds trail under his binder to his iPad.
But the baby I fell in love with, brought home from the hospital and got to know so well has been gone for a long time.
In his place was a familiar and just as lovable toddler who clutchedThomas the Tank Engine railcars in each hand and had his own ideas about vegetables and bedtime.
Then one day the toddler was gone, too, replaced by a small boy in a Buzz Lightyear costume who inserted "to infinity and beyond" at the end of the Pledge of Allegiance in place of "and justice for all."
In no time Buzz Lightyear was AWOL, and there was another boy, taller and faster, with new front teeth too big for his face, fearless in Jedi robes, a light saber tucked into the belt loop of his jeans.
Then the Jedi was gone and another boy, one even taller and with huge feet, took up residency in the blue-carpeted bedroom, shoved the stuffed animals behind the bed, and emptied his pockets of rocks and Lego minifigures in favor of a cellphone.
And then just when I got used to him, the latest version of this boy turned up this summer, startlingly responsible, suddenly knowledgable about neurobiology and plumbing, and savvy enough to navigate public transportation, get a table at a restaurant and figure out what to leave for a tip.
I'm very proud of the young man. But I do miss the baby, the toddler, Buzz Lightyear, the young Jedi, and the curious boy with loaded pockets who came before this newest model.
Oh, there is plenty of evidence that those boys existed -- pictures, videos and marks on the door frame tracking their growth. I still get glimpses of them, like when I occasionally announce that we are "really reliable and right on time," something Thomas the Tank Engine always boasted, and the 13-year-old Sawyer smirks.
This Sawyer is smart, kind and funny. (Talking with his friend Sam over dinner about Sam's plan to study philosophy in college, Sawyer asked him, "So you're going to ask people, 'Why would you like fries with that?' ")
I like his growing independence. I like watching him discover new interests and hearing his thoughts on current events and politics. (It makes for much more interesting dinner conversation than when he was 8 and on a run of knock-knock jokes.)
Maybe what I miss more about those younger versions of Sawyer is the kind of mother I was back then.
I seemed to know instinctively what to do with the baby, correctly translating every cry, whether he was hungry, or needed changing, or just holding.
The toddler needed redirecting, a lap to curl up in, milk in a sippy cup, bedtime stories (at least two), and help figuring out how to configure his toy train tracks so they would cross the bridge and go through the tunnel.
Buzz Lightyear required reminders, time-outs in Target, chase games in the backyard, books about space, visits to the planetarium and help finding the right Lego pieces.
The fearless boy in Jedi robes needed directing toward the light side of the Force, evil to conquer, the occasional light-saber confiscation for infractions, trees to climb, space to run and Band-Aids.
The next boy needed a book in the tree fort out back, a fast computer, truthful answers to all questions and just a stern look when he needed to straighten up. This boy also renegotiated his bedtime with a Power Point presentation.
I parented all those boys. I felt like I knew what I was doing, and I was good at it.
And then one day this teenager showed up.
Now parenting seems much more complicated, even though in many ways this age is easier.
At 13, Sawyer takes out the trash without being nagged and cleans his bathroom for real, not just wiping down the mirror and sink. He can stay home alone, fend for himself in the kitchen and handle his own social arrangements.
But I can't read him as well as I could when he was younger to know what he needs or what he is feeling. I'm not sure he always knows either.
Come here. Go away.
I can do it myself. Help me!
I love you. I hate you.
Sometimes at the same time.
(This, by the way, is why people say, "I want a baby," but no one ever says, "I want a teenager!")
Sawyer used to plop his foot in my lap, the universal sign for "Tie my shoe." Now what he drops in my lap are questions about girls, rational numbers, taking on too much, college (when he hasn't even started high school), whether there is any scientific research supporting his 10 p.m. bedtime and how people could have stood by and let the Holocaust happen.
I don't have all the answers anymore. The 1,669-piece Lego Star Wars Sandcrawler set seems easy now.
On the first day of eighth grade this fall, Sawyer opened the back of the car and helped Sophia, a fifth-grader new to the carpool, lift out her backpack -- it was almost as big as Sophia herself -- and then slung his own over one shoulder.
With a half-smile and a small wave, my teenager strode off in his size 12 black Converse, and I lost sight of him in the crowd of kids. He didn't look back.
I'll try not to either.
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