It’s the night my column is due, probably should have had it done about an hour ago, and instead, I’m sitting on G’s bedroom floor, furiously digging through a drawer of T-shirts trying to find a single track team T-shirt that doesn’t “fit him funny” or have paint all over it.

I’m trying to assemble a wardrobe for his senior picture session, and G, well, he’s got about 80 other things he’d rather be doing.

Another round of senior year. One year off was not quite enough to recover. I admit, I’ve been dreading the wind down of summer because I am not ready to do this thing all over again. Part of me thinks that I should be an expert at this, having navigated it once already. It wasn’t easy, and I definitely didn’t know what I was doing for most of it, but we survived.

A and I look back now and laugh about some of the tense moments we had. Some of the rejections now seem so obviously the wrong choice for him, we both wonder what he was thinking.

In many cases, what seemed a setback, or an unwelcome detour, has turned out to have a positive ending, or at least brought about a positive change.

Part of that is the benefit of hindsight, part of it is making the best of a maybe less than perfect situation, and part of it has been A’s determination to succeed no matter what life throws at him.

So, obviously, G is cut from completely different cloth than A is, and all those benchmarks are completely meaningless. I am starting from scratch.

Senior photos are a good reminder that I don’t know what the heck I’m doing. A had his outfit changes planned out weeks in advance, as well as a clear idea of where and what he wanted his pictures to include. Everything from pocket squares to props were meticulously coordinated.

Right now, G’s not even sure he has a track T-shirt that fits him, let alone one for each of his other four sports.

As I’m digging through layers of clothes he’s “forgotten he’s had” (this is what happens when you live out of the same laundry basket instead of using your dresser drawers), he announces that, “Oops, he forgot his saxophone at the school today.”

He “guesses he should do something about that.” He only had it in his hands for about three hours at practice tonight, and somehow forgot to bring it home. His devilish smirk is just daring me to remind him how many times I reminded him that he needed to bring it home. At least I know where his band T-shirt is.

I know G and I know somehow or other, the sax will be present when needed. It might be better if I don’t ask too many questions. We go back to digging through piles of old T-shirts.

While A and I toured campus after campus, and still weren’t sure where he belonged, halfway through our first college visit, G announced that he “would go to there.” Then, he asked if we could bail out of the tour and go get lunch. Plenty of eyes were rolled, and the tour continued.

Then, he discovered that school visits are excused absences from school, so I was instructed that he would not be visiting any more colleges until after school resumes. I immediately signed him up for two more visits this month. More eyes were rolled.

Now he’s pulled out an orange button down shirt and a blue bathing suit. “Here, these match,” he says. They most certainly do not match, either in style or color.

“They both have sasquatches on them,” is the response. He is, of course, correct. G’s wardrobe is heavy on sasquatch themed items.

“You can wear one or the other, but not both, and certainly not at the same time” is the compromise, which, I belatedly realize was his angle the entire time.

Minutes later, he finds his first track T-shirt, from 7th grade. He’s grown over a foot since then and has just about doubled in size. It takes him about 30 seconds to contort himself into it, and then he’s pulling a Hulk Hogan and practically bursting out of it.

“Perfect,” he says. I’m about to agree when I remember he was gifted a hoodie from the booster association this year, and within seconds he’s found it at the bottom of his laundry basket.

Luckily, it matches the blue sasquatch swimsuit perfectly. That’s about as close to winning a battle I will get for the evening, so it’s time to throw in the towel.

I don’t think I uttered the word sasquatch once during A’s senior year, and I’ve already said it about 15 times tonight. Something tells me I’m buckling up for a very different ride. Senior year, take two. We are ready for this.

Liz Pinkey’s column appears on Saturdays in the Times News