• • •

Friday was my son’s twentieth birthday. My only child is a constant joy in my life and every single day I wonder how I raised such a brilliant, warm, charming, ambitious, polite and engaging person who continues to amaze me every single day. I was so young when he was born – only nineteen – and I didn’t truly understand the gift that I had been given. In fact, it wasn’t until he became a teenager and no longer needed me that my eyes were opened to just how significant being his mother meant. I would have no more bedtime stories or snuggles. No more kisses just because. No more first days of school or masterpieces to hang on the refrigerator. I would no longer be the first person he would hug at the end of a really bad day or talk to when his day was great. I wouldn’t be seated in the front row at Christmas pageants or holding his dinosaur-costumed hand as we walk through the neighborhood Trick-or-Treating. I thought I had more time. I thought he would be my little boy for much longer. But he’s not, he’s a young man now and that time is gone forever. But the joy I experienced as a young mother is heightened ten-fold because I truly treasure all of those childhood moments now and see the man he’s become, and continues to develop into. It’s a different kind of relationship now, one of mutual respect and love, and while I still get an unsolicited hug or kiss on the cheek, I know he is as proud of me as I am of him.

Tagged: childhood, children, growing up, nostalgia