It's getting harder to feel as sure as I used to that Andrew knows how much I love him. What can I do to show this besides give him rides to the movies, hope he talks to me a little on the way there, then watch the back of him hook up with twenty guys and girls I don't know all the names of?

I can go to every one of his soccer games and try not to yell on the sidelines like a Beatles' groupie, and then walk across the field to greet him, pat his sweaty back like the other parents do.

I can't help with his homework. Latin, Algebra One, Science - all too hard. I offered to read the novel-that's-boring-him for English so we could talk about it. Our own little bookclub in the kitchen! How great it would be for him to tap into his mother the old English major, but he said he only had a couple of chapters left.

I'd gladly cook him breakfast on the weekends, but he likes making his own pancakes from scratch. Fluffy and big as cup saucers. From reading the back of the Aunt Jemima box, he knows to flip them when bubbles start to form around the edges. After he leaves the kitchen I vulture in on his syrup-soaked leftovers.

It's hard to keep my distance day after day when I'd like to be sniffing around in his damn privacy. I need some kind of muzzle for my heart.

Having Malcolm take our photo is still an okay excuse for me to stand close to him.