karen rutherford, freelance writer

18. Eight. Teen. The birthday sheet cake from Kroger paled in comparison to the homemade German chocolate cake made by Katie’s father. And you can’t unwrap a forgiven debt.

Of course he had to go as soon as I got home. He took the sheet cake and went to a friend’s house for a birthday spend-the-night bonfire and weenie roast. The cake came back home the next day with only ‘Happ’ visible.

We did have a lovely dinner at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, though. It was the most we’ve talked in the past month.

He went to IU orientation and registered for classes. I didn’t want to go play the advertised parent-camp games, and he said it didn’t matter if I went, so I didn’t. But when he ran into some people we know who asked where I was, he told them that I told him he needed to go by himself. As if.

The biggest stress of financial paperwork: “I certify that I am registered with the Selective Service.” Penalty is prosecution and up to a $250,000 fine. I never thought I’d have to worry about this, but, I do, certainly now with this country’s collective karma upon us.

On to July, when I too will age another year, but, of course, oh, so gracefully.

_{*Alice Cooper lyric. Son's first concert. Whaddaya gonna do?}