Living-Deliberately.com

Actually *he* is 12. As of yesterday. We spent an afternoon with Marble Machiato’s and Surfer magazines and talking and pretty soon he’ll get the gift that is going to help him achieve one of his dreams. He changes every day, not unlike that first year of his, and watching him is a marvel.

And I am 12, in a way, as well. Because yesterday was the 12th anniversary of becoming a mother. Reverse the numbers and you have my age that day: 21. It was raining then, just like now. The contractions started in the wee hours and we called the midwife at dawn. She came and told me this wasn’t really labor. I whispered to that little baby that we knew it was and to just go ahead and be born today please. And so he did….the rain made the other midwife late and by mid-afternoon her assistant and I were lifting that wriggling little man-baby onto my stomach.

It was an instant love affair and learning process. I’d had years of experience with babies before having him but that was nothing like rocking my own. We’d spend hours on the couch, him napping on my knees, me just drinking in his peachy complexion, perfectly round head, and beautiful pout. We took long walks around that park with the ancient trees down by the river. In a lot of ways, we grew together.

And we’re still growing. I’ve promised this boy things…things that never should have happened to him will never happen again. I’m looking for redemption for us both…I let something along the way break and now it’s time to fix it. His anger is lessening. His barricade and walls are softening. That happens when the truth is finally told.

Afternoons in sunny light, just gazing at his amazing being still happen. Now, of course, he can talk and it’s incredible to experience getting to know your child as who they are, rather than what they are. He’s not just my firstborn, my baby; he’s becoming a very interesting young man with big ideas and dreams. He has his own perspective…the river has forged it’s own meandering turn, not just wearing down the same, previously trodden path. Mixed metaphor, I know, and that is kind of what a child is: “a comparison between two things without the use of ‘like’ or ‘as’. ” He is not so like us as to be a copy, he is not as we are, and yet he is. Forever “from” us, with traits similar, and always his own, with unique individuality that is as no other.

Twelve years ago I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The days of smelling that sweet newborn head or feeling his breath near my heart are long past. By the time another 12 are past he’ll be a man. These tender days in between are amazing.

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