Today I get to write solely about my middle son, Owen. This hasn’t happened in a long time — specifically, since 2011. That’s when I wrote a column about frozen waffles, and Owen seemingly fell off the radar.

You might remember that the country was in the middle of a crisis. An Eggo factory had flooded, and waffle supplies were drastically limited nationwide. I didn’t know about this when I wrote a column about my then-young sons’ obsession with frozen waffles and how our mornings could be judged a success based only on how well I had made (in other words, did I butter the “wrong side”?) the Eggos. I tallied up how many waffles I had cooked and how many I was projected to make should my kids’ appetite for them continue (it did not).

Soon after, critics told me that I should not feed my children frozen waffles. I explained that I cooked them first.

But then something more terrible happened: the Eggo factory incident. The following week, I wrote another column about explaining the shortage to my sons, and how Owen, then 8 years old, flopped to the ground and proclaimed that his day was ruined. When I wrote those words, I did not expect that Owen’s second-grade peers would be reading the newspaper before heading to the bus. But one of them had, and he called Owen a “Waffle Flopper” on the sidewalk.

Owen came home, slammed the door and said, “Never write about me again!”

And I didn’t. Not for a very long time, and only after I received clearance from Owen. As you can imagine, some readers noticed the absence. A few of them wrote things like, “You know she has three sons, but she only writes about two of them. I feel bad for the one she doesn’t love.”

On the contrary, Owen felt very much loved when he was not included in this column. Until a few years ago when he said, “Why don’t you ever write about me?”

Teenagers, man.

Owen is now 15 years old, and last week, he was sitting at the same seat at our kitchen table when today’s story happened. We had just finished a five-month stretch of birthdays. One after another, we celebrate our family’s fall and winter birthdays, right through the holidays, and for each one, I make an elaborate, yet seldom photo-worthy, homemade cake. These cakes, which usually have a Star Wars theme, often require lots of frosting and food coloring. For several days during cake preparation, the kitchen is a booby trap of confection.

All of us had already forgotten about the five previous cakes when we sat down to chicken and rice for dinner. Forks and knives were clanking on plates, and parmesan cheese was passed from person to person, when suddenly Owen threw down his fork, pushed back his chair and said, “What the heck is going on?” His arms were outstretched and his face was alarmed.

Then Ford said, “Man, that happened to you a few weeks ago, too.”

“I know,” Owen said. “What is going on?”

The rest of us were very confused, so Owen had to explain: For several weeks, blue frosting had been appearing out of nowhere on his hands.

“I mean, this is kind of freaky, right?” he said, holding out his pinky finger for us to see that it was covered in blue frosting. “Same thing a few weeks ago. I’m just sitting there eating my lunch, and all the sudden I’ve got frosting on my hands.”

Lindell, 11, our resident safety officer, was now frantic. He got up from his seat and started turning things upside down. First Owen’s napkin, then his spoon. He lifted up the dinner plate and held it in the air to see the bottom of it.

“No frosting,” Lindell said.

There was a lot of commotion now, most of it laughter, except from Lindell, who was on the case.

“Is anyone writing this down?” Owen said. “How else will we know the origin story of Frosting Man?”

Lindell continued to turn over plates and glasses. He was crawling under the table and checking seats. Sparky, our dog, paced nervously between our feet. He would have loved to have some frosting.

“There is no need for future frosting,” Owen said. “I can just produce this stuff at will now. But only in blue. It has to be blue. That’s all I’ve got.” He held up his other hand, and there was a new patch of blue frosting on the palm.

Then, while Owen was perfecting how he’d announce himself as Frosting Man, Lindell yelled, “I found it!” He held up the parmesan cheese bottle like a trophy. Around the top rim was a bead of blue frosting.

Owen did not flop on the floor. But he did seem a little sad that Frosting Man was no longer an option. He had considered it a giant upgrade from Waffle Flopper.

Follow the Bangor Daily News on Facebook for the latest Maine news.