Jonny McCambridge: The teenage years begin - the next step on the parenting journey

It happened recently when I was at an event and was approached by an older woman who told me that the entire contents of all newspapers on the market now are complete nonsense, save for what I write on this page.

While I understand that this may not be the universal, or indeed even the popular view, it was nonetheless heartening to hear the affirmation and remind myself that, while the numbers may be small, there are still some people out there paying attention to what I do.

This particular woman was, it seemed, strong in her opinions and unafraid of sharing them. After spending a short time praising me, she quickly moved on to explaining my failures.

“You used to be funny,” she explained. “You're not really funny any more.”

I nodded along seriously,

“Also,” she continued loftily. “I used to love reading about your adventures with your son, but you don't really mention him so much now. You just waffle on about yourself.”

I thanked the formidable woman and went on about my way. Later, as I drove home, I pondered her criticism.

While I will leave any analysis of the dilution of the richness of my comic output to others, it is undoubtedly true that my son does not feature in my writing anywhere near as much as he used to.

This page began, many years ago, when I was asked to transfer the storytelling spirit of an earlier parenting blog which I had created and which had received some attention, into a newspaper column.

I wrote about my then very young son on the first week and again countless times since.

The truth is, however, that this subject matter becomes more difficult as the boy grows. Writing about taking an infant to see Santa may be viewed as harmless fun, but when the child develops to have their own sensitivities and sensibilities, I have to be a bit more careful what is shared.

I need to consider if I am writing anything that could embarrass him, or, an even more direct question, does he want me to mention him here at all? My boy used to get a thrill when he knew I was writing about him; now it usually elicits nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders.

This week my son became a teenager. Fittingly, it was sunny on the day that he celebrated his 13th birthday, just as it was back on the afternoon when my life was forever changed in May 2013.

I well remember the angry look that that tiny purple ball of rage gave me when he was placed in my arms for the first time. I have become well used to that expression since.

I knew little then about parenting. The sense of panic of those first few days remains a traumatic memory. The child would not sleep and, therefore, neither did the parents.

There was a period when it seemed that I would never have the time to do anything else in my life again other than look after this infant who needed constant care. The most elementary of tasks, such as leaving the house, now seemed to require a level of planning and preparation akin to an expedition to climb Mount Everest.

While my wife and I never made the conscious decision that we would not have more children, I think it was quietly understood from early on. We threw all that we had into caring for our young son and there was not much left.

In the more difficult moments, I would have openly conceded that I simply didn't believe I could have done it again. I retain a sense of awed admiration and wonder for parents who juggle the responsibilities of more than one child.

The years move quickly. The once tiny infant now towers over his mother and, if he continues to grow at his current trajectory, will be looking down on his father in just a few months. While his footwear is of a different style to mine, the shoe size is close to the same.

For years, I could buy him an ice cream knowing that the majority of the treat would be passed to me to devour. That is no longer the case. Previously I would have ordered a large pizza for myself and a small one for my son. That position has been reversed as I struggle to eat as much as I used to and he seems to have a limitless appetite.

Once, I watched delighted and proud as he took his few stumbling upright steps. Now, when we go for runs together, I am left panting in his wake as his long giraffe-like legs carry him off over the horizon.

In all ways, he is thriving and excelling while I am struggling to keep up.

He is now a teenager, but still a child struggling to make sense of life. Despite the outward appearance of poise, I know how little it takes to reduce him, just like his daddy, to distress and tears.

Sometimes it makes me shudder to consider how he will cope with the harshness of a confusing world as he grows further into it and further away from me.

I find myself still instinctively wanting to wrap a warm blanket around him, just like I did when I was putting him down for a nap as a baby.

The parenting journey is far from over; it never will be. I know that I will continue to worry about him until my final breath.

The day of my son's 13th birthday begins like all the rest, with him coming into our bedroom for the comfort of the morning hug.

We wish him happy birthday and tell him how proud we are of him.

I may not talk about parenting as much as I once did, but it remains my life's work.