I think you're the greatest. Because you are.
I know you love me. I do. You gave birth to me after all. Without an epidural even. You sacrificed a lot over the years so I could have an amazing life. You fed me, clothed me, band-aided my scrapes, taught me how to play chopsticks on the piano, took me to see "The Nightmare Before Christmas" on our mother-son date even though I'm pretty sure you would have rather seen any other movie, and there was even that one time when you jumped on the trampoline with us. So yep, I know.
But can we talk about a couple of things?
1 - I will always be your son. That is true - and I love that. But I am not - and never again will be - your little boy. I think that might have been over when I started making my own mac and cheese. And certainly when I started paying for my own insurance or when I bought my own house. "No!" you say. "That doesn't matter! You'll always be my little boy!" I understand where you're coming from, I do. But you should - and I know you do - want more for me. You should want me to stop being your little boy. You miss that little boy, I know. You miss his chubby cheeks (though I, certainly, do not), his report cards that said, "a little too social," the way he'd cuddle up with you when he was sick, his art projects on the fridge. But little boys can't pursue their dreams. They can't use their talents to make the world a better place the same way as men can. And they certainly can't afford to pay their own rent. You should want me to grow up and be a man. And I have, Mom. So no, I am not your little boy, but I am - and always will be - your son. Nothing's gonna change that. And that's pretty cool.
2 - I am almost 30 and can grow a beard. I'm a little old for "cute". That train left a while ago. Won't be back until I'm at least 70 and holding hands with my wife in the park. And I'm not a glittery craft project, or frilly baby underwear, so maybe let's find another word.
I know. It's hard. But I have faith in you, Mom, cuz you've done some awesome stuff in the last 30 or so years. I mean, look how I turned out. I'm a long way off from perfect, but I'm doing a lot better than the hobo I saw pooping in the bushes a few weeks ago, and that's not just because of chance.
Your son (who you happen to think is fairly handsome. See how easy that was?)