I look across the kitchen table at my eleven year old son, and in a moment of grace, I forget our growing pains, his manifested discontent, that I’ve been cloaked in my own frustration all morning; a discomfort triggered by his determination to see an idea through though we’ve told him more than once to stop, and so have been gifted with a display not exactly like a tantrum, but not far from.
As I gaze on my son’s angular form, I remember that I am his mother, he is my cherished baby. I cooed over him, watched with held breath as he toddled two steps in Nana’s bright living room, an eleven month old miracle. I remember his toothless grin, bouncing sun-streaked auburn curls, and a light in his eyes. It seemed to call, “I am a magic elf and you are my best friend. Shall we play and laugh forever?”
I’ve been staring at my growing boy for a while. He’s engrossed in a book, unaware of my transformation. I am lost and found, lighter for seeing him as the jewel he is, for waking up (again) to how how quickly eleven years has passed, that eighteen is surely a blink away. He looks up from his Superman comic, reads me for a moment, then smiles back.