Eleven years ago today I became a mother. In that moment my life changed forever for the better. Eleven years ago today I held my baby boy in my arms and prayed that I wouldn't ruin something so beautiful and precious.
Today I can barely wrap my arms around that boy. He is only inches shorter than me and he loses a bit more of the little boy in him each day. Long gone are the days of hot wheels and Bob the Builder. Today he dreams of real cars and real adventure. I watch him as he struggles in the gray between a boy and a man. I see so much of myself and his father in him. But really he is his own. He is kind and thoughtful. He is stubborn and logical. He is a quiet, old soul. He has a poet's heart and an engineer's intellect. He is artist and mathematician. He is annoyed by living in a household of dramatic females and often retreats to his room or his tree. But he will defend all three of us to anyone who makes us cry and takes care of us without being asked. People are drawn to him. He is charming without arrogance. He is handsome without vanity. He is respectful but willing to speak up when he feels he needs to, and sometimes speaks up when he shouldn't. He is a work in progress. But he is a work that appears to be progressing very well. Despite my own imperfections, I have yet to see ruin. In fact, I am constantly finding new reasons to be proud of him. He amazes me each time he rises above a situation that I worry will tear him apart. He is tough and resilient. He is good and he is able to do so much more than I can ever imagine for him.
Today I want to tell him happy birthday. And I want him to know that I am so very proud of him. I think he is a wonderful mess.
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