First you watch your children grow up. From babies to kids to young adults, all in the blink of an eye, or so it seems. Then the cycle repeats itself with your grandchildren.

He was not the first grandchild–his older sister has that distinction–but he was the first grandson. My first boy. I’d been the mother of three girls, you see, so I had to figure out what to do to entertain a little fellow.

Turned out it wasn’t so hard. From Candy Land to chess, from popsicle stick crafts to shooting hoops–the years rolled by. Tuesday after school became our designated time together. I picked him up from school on that day until he was old enough to drive to my house after tennis practice.

A while ago, he kiddingly (I think) listed himself in my phone contacts as “My Favorite Grandchild.” He’s one of seven grandchildren, ranging in age from his almost 20-year-old older sister to 16-month-old twin girl cousins. I haven’t changed his contact listing, but of course I will go to my grave saying they’re all my favorites.

Speaking of favorites, I don’t kid myself that I’m the center of his universe these days. I’m pretty sure the last couple of years the highlight of our weekly visit has been an early dinner of takeout Japanese. After all, he’s a 17-year-old boy who, like most guys that age, likes to eat. He knows his grandma is good for a trip to Tokyo Express. He has our standing order on his phone and calls it in just about every Tuesday night.

I joke that instead of remembering Grandma’s homecooked meals, he’ll recall Tokyo Express.

In less than a month now, he’ll be off to college and those Tuesday afternoons will end. From a towheaded cutie pie to a young man, all in the blink of an eye. Makes me proud…and sad.