This year, my son is turning 23. The same age that I was when I gave birth to him, nearly 23 years ago. For some reason, this scares me. I look at him and see my baby. My beautiful boy who struggled through my young adulthood with me. My little man who helped me to learn to be the best parent that I could be. His unconditional love made me feel that I could move mountains. His unshakable belief in my strength, love, intelligence and protective arms taught me to believe in myself.
My son and I shared our young lives together. We fought the world together, and stood together against any odds that we came up against. We would go to the ends of the earth for each other. And I can honestly say that I love him without condition or reserve. Like all parents, I want him to do well in his life, to be as successful as he can, and to follow his passion, and find his life's calling - wherever that may take him.
It is not his birthday yet, but this year, I am reflective of my own pregnancy, now 23 years ago, with the only child I would ever give birth to. 23 years ago I was telling my parents the news, preparing for my first ultrasound, and wondering what my life was going to be like in the future. As I look back at how far we have come in the short span of his life so far, I am amazed.
I am so proud of him for deciding to continue his education, and that he is doing well at this, even though it is sometimes a challenge. I don't know if I tell him often enough how proud I am.
I am touched that he calls me when the weather is bad, to remind me to drive carefully, and to tell me that he loves me.
I am honored that he can be so frighteningly honest with me, it shows me that he KNOWS that I love him unconditionally.
In the depths of the winter weather, he is the promise of spring, the joy of summer, and the wonder of amazing autumn.