My son is 16 years old. Every time he passes a mirror, and there are many in our household, he cannot help but watch himself, watching himself. His new 5'10" body, slimmed down from growth spurts. He wild hair, allowed to grow longer for the first time in his life. His perfect face torched with youth, his practiced sullen glance. His bare chest proudly displayed when he surfs, a new hobby of this modern day Narcissus.

I don't mind that this leaves me the role of his mother, the nymph Liriope. Who wouldn't want to live nymph-like for awhile, perhaps a part of Artemis' retinue? Or maybe in the entourage of Dionysus, the God of Wine. Which would explain my yearning [addiction?] for the wondrous grape, not picked singley from the vine but fermented to 10-15% alcohol by volume - I'm just saying. I yearn for the intoxication, the exileration that such fermented gems provide and it gives me something to do while Narcissus, catching a glance of himself on his way out the door, stops, a bit stunned that the 8 year old, who still resides inside of him can look out his eyes and see this stunning example of manhood. Who knew?

As the nymph, the marriageable young woman, the delicate, clever, wassail, I preen and smile inside as he stares, he dare not move too much in case the reflection disappears & leaves him alone with his insides that too often gloat that he is too-something: too young, too immature, too friendless, too confused. That he has grown strong and introspective thrills and rattles me. I grieve for my 8 year old son who will never return, while at the same time I rally the 16 year old one onward. Such schizophrenic feelings brought on by parenting explains a little of why the fermented grape is an important part of my food pyramid.

Do not confuse the airy nymph who mothered Narcissus with the tramp called Nympho, whose reputation is an outgrowth of the mythological entities and thus used by doctors to describe women a little too interested in...shall we say, men? And certainly, Nympho, would never be the title of any future daughter- in -law, the wife of Narcissus, who will be nothing less than queen-like in her bearing and Mother Teresa in her heart, who will bear my future grandchildren. And they too will one day gaze into a mirror, caught short by the vision where childhood is dropping away, shed like the serpents skin and their new-old face looks back, surprised & sneekily content at what they see.

(Pass the wine).