Another piece of my heart...

Its graduation time.  Caps and gown and speeches and parties time.  Pride and relief and anxiety and confidence time.  Deep thoughts time.

I watched my third child walked across the same stage that her siblings had done in past years; and applauded as she accepted her diploma from the same high school that her siblings had; and I cried, just like I did for her siblings. Mom of 3 graduates, and another 14 years before my fourth and final child makes that same walk.

But someone else special to me graduated too, from a different school on a different night.  And although I didn't watch it happening, I've seen the photos and video clips and cried the same happy momma tears for her.  She is my... well, step-daughter I guess - for lack of a better word.

I'm not married (nor ever was) to her father.  I've never lived in the same house with her, never spent more than 2 or 3 nights in a row with her under my roof.  I've never fought with her over homework or chores, curfew, language... I've never taken her to or from school or camp or lessons, I've never taken her to a doctor or picked up a prescription from a pharmacy for her.  Never taken care of her when she's sick.  But I have prayed for this child, cried over her and for her, had long dramatic conversations in the car with her, seen her build relationships with my children, and call them her siblings, and seen her fall in love with the new baby brother her father and I brought into this family.

When I first met her, she was 11.  Long skinny arms and legs, wearing a knit winter cap over her blondish hair and sitting on her daddy's lap.  She was tiny, this girl - and now at 18 she barely hits 5' even and has to have any formal wear tailored down to fit her extremely petite self - because she rocks the curves of a taller woman in spite of her lack of height.  I'm so proud of her, but feel like I need to stay backstage, in the wings, offering only a hug and a smile when she comes to me.  She is so fortunate to have a tight relationship with her mom and her step dad - she is well loved and cared for and has had all the support and encouragement and opportunities you could imagine.  There is very little room for me as a parent, as the mom of her brother, as the partner (former) of her father.  He isn't as involved in her life as I think he should be anyway, so my presence is even of less value due to that.  But none of that lessens my actual love for her.  My love for her is so big...

I love her drama, her crazy talent, her wild emotions, her hour long showers that turn into 2 hour long bathroom sessions, her perpetually messy life, I love it all.  I worry about her - about the hospital stays and the therapy and the medications and the always real concern for her well being.  She is not my daughter, and nothing like the daughters that grew in my womb, she is loud and theatrical and her emotions fling like rainbows from her soul...and I SEE her - and I love her, and I'm so happy for her...and I'm sorry to be part of something that hurts her, confuses her, pulls her in different directions.  But none of it diminishes my love for her.

Happy Graduation, daughter of my heart, and may only good things come to you to balance out the "not good" that you've had more than enough of.

I love you!

D

The Napping House

The boy fell asleep halfway thru singing about his lost blue lazer-light.  I don't know how that is possible, but it is, and he did.  I suppose if I can fall asleep halfway thru praying, then he can fall asleep halfway thru singing.  Besides, he's only three so he can kind of do whatever he wants and it's still within the norm.

The dog is asleep too.  He is pressed against my right thigh, all warm and heavy and doggy-ish.  He occasionally twitches or sighs and I am feeling envious of the napping that is going on around me.

I tried to nap 3 times already.  The first time was after our 4:18 am fiasco with the leaking pull-up.  But the boy was awake enough, after the rudeness of my cold hands on his bare body as I wrestled him into dry clothes, that he couldn't fall back asleep.  His constant thrashing and twisting, combined with the irresistible nature of his tender little kisses and pleas for hugs made "napping" impossible for me as well.  Later around 10, when I realized we weren't going to make it to church in spite of being fully dressed, made up, and with keys in hand; I tried to lay down with him.  Cue the giggling and the kissing.  Man does that boy love to kiss his momma.  Add in the dog barking because 10 am is actually a busy time outside and there were any number of things that needed to be barked at.  Finally I bribed the boy with a movie and a snuggle on the couch at about 1 pm.  Cozy blankets, a few pillows, a dvd on very low volume...and I did doze off; however it was with the unfortunate rasp of Cruella DeVille snaking its way into my semi-sleep and so when the boy slithered off the couch and promptly stepped on a lego (and cried) I was brought harshly to consciousness.  I might possibly had developed a wee bit of a cranky nature by then.

Now it is after 3 and when I put him up in his own bed and told him I was setting a timer for 10 minutes so I could "wash dishes" before we went to the store, I did not expect myself to catch a second wind.  But I did.

So I sit; in this quiet, dark, napping house. I try to not think about the long evening hours ahead, but instead about the hours I spent with my little guy today;  how he showed me his "yoga" and how he made me do push-ups, and how we played legos and how I gave him fruit snacks for no reason at all, and how much I love this little boy...and the dog...and our little safe space in this life, even when everyone else gets a nap except me.

What else can I do?

Some time ago I told you, "something happened and I have to tell you some important thing!" and then life happened and I never got around to telling you...  but now, too late on a work night, after one glass of wine too many, I have to tell someone, anyone, because I can't stop thinking about it and so this is what happened.

First of all, I did something illegal.  So... Yeah.   Ok.  Remember when I stored some boxes at C's house? And then I moved and I thought I got all of them but last summer she called to tell me her daughter found a couple more.  So I went and got them and brought them home and opened them to see what it was that I hadn't even thought about enough to notice I was missing...and they were *M's boxes.  Boxes full of her clothes, shoes, pictures, art work, some toys, all the DCF paperwork, the contracts, my initial notes from her placement, a record of doctor visits...her state ID cards, her medical record number...

I cried.

A lot.

For a week.

Because what else could I do?

And then I saw the light.  I saw her medical record number.  And... I did that illegal thing.  I went to work where I had promised to never do the very thing I was doing... and I looked her up.  Because what else could I do?

She was 10 months old when she was placed with me, she was just 2 years and 3 weeks old when they took her back.  I loved her for just over a year...  Now? She will be 9 in just a couple of weeks.  

The last note in her record was from a couple years ago.  She was maybe 7...she was presenting to the ER because a teacher reported possible sexual abuse.  The notation states she is learning disabled, slow...like her mom.  She lives with her father though.  The report cleared her father...and recommended further DCF follow up.  I read it all at work, silently and stoically, and secretively, and then I went to the employee bathroom and threw up.  Twice.  Because what else could I do?

Once upon a time I had a little brown girl in my arms and in my heart, and now I am broken...and so is she... 

So I pray... Please, pray with me, for her.  Because what else can I do?

I didn't even get a lanyard...

(From the poem by Billy Collins)

Another Mother's Day come and gone. 

I keep trying to approach the day realistically and without expectation but I failed; no surprise really but I'm trying to take my failure in stride.  As a friend of mine once said, "...well that seems to be true of so many other things in your life, it's just never enough"... Oddly she wasn't being mean but rather speaking ironically.  Though her words didn't hurt me, since they were so radically true, they have never left me and I think about them often.

And this Mother's Day may be a case in point.  Part of my day was genuinely, perfect.  Briefly, I felt spoiled and treated with exception.  But I was also dissapointed and let down by specific people...And a small bitter part of me felt embarrassed even by those same people.  

My children are the very heartbeat of my soul.  Daily I am brought up breathless with love for them.  They are also all (with the exception of the baby) old enough now to be responsible for navigating the holiday on their own.  And they didn't.  No card, no handmade token, nothing.  Not. A. Thing.  It happened on my birthday in December as well.  I raised ungrateful thoughtless children apparently.  Sad...

I am working thru those feelings now, and allowing myself to feel the bad feelings while still embracing all the goodness that Mother's Day held as well.  I don't want to devalue the joys of yesterday, the delicious bits of love that came my way so generously, so I am trying to let the hurt be there in the shadow instead of the forefront.  I can't NOT feel sad or hurt, but I CAN choose to let the happy feelings be the ones I dwell on and remember.

My children are bright and talented and creative and so funny, they are incredible gifts and I wouldn't trade them for a token card of acknowledgement, so I want to be grateful, and I want to embrace the concept of "enough".  My day, such as it was, was enough.  

A little prayer

He doesn't understand at first.
He doesn't like wearing the crown that goes with his costume.  He doesn't want the hood up, hates the feel of  the sleeves with their built in claws dangling round his tiny wrists, and doesn't want to hold the plastic pumpkin candy bucket.
I roll up the sleeves, leave the hood dangling down his back, and at the very last minute I pop his crown on his head and distract him by showing him how to knock on the door.  The plastic candy bucket sits on the ground between his feet.
He slaps the door with his little starfish hand and looks up, up, up.  It must seem impossibly large to him.  He is so small.  So dear.  So vulnerable and sweet.  My heart cracks a little with all the love I have for this tiny little moppet of mine.

The door opens.  From my position, crouched down beside my son, I chorus the standard "Trick or Treat" with high pitched enthusiasm, trying to get him  to chime in somehow, showing him what to do, modeling the right behavior.  Things I will continue to do for years to come.  I smile encouragingly, wrap his fingers around the bucket handle and help him hold it out for the miracle of free candy.  His eyes get big as the candy drops into his bucket.  He doesn't even know what candy is, but the novelty of being given something is apparently mind boggling and he stares open mouthed and big eyed into the depths of his once empty bucket.  "ohhhh" he says.  "uh-oh!" The only words he knows, and they actually seem applicable.

I help him wave and lift him down the stairs which are too tall for his little little legs.  At the bottom of the stairs he once again gapes into his candy bucket.  He puts it on the ground and looks up at me, puzzled.  I scoop him up and kiss that sweet spot between his cheek and neck, the spot that smells like graham crackers and "baby".  "That's candy! It's your treat! Wanna do more? More houses? More candy?"  He says, "yeah" like he always does when I ask him anything.  He hasn't learned "No" yet, thank goodness, and his little whispered "yeah" is sweet and funny all at once.

After the third house, it's like a light bulb goes off in his mind and the whole entire night is illuminated with understanding.  Go to door, get stuff, wave.  Next house!  Go to door, get stuff, wave.  Next house!  He runs on his tiny little legs, zigzagging and weaving, waving at any other kids he sees, he chatters nonstop in a language of his own, so full of merriment and joy.  He has no clue that the candy is for eating.  One house gives little bags of pretzels and I open it for him and let him munch on them.  He is happy now to carry his little candy bucket and he is so full of joy that it spills out of him and lights the whole night.  We walk together in our own little bubble of joy and light and I am so grateful for this moment with him.

He is so small, my little moppet.  Such a nugget of a baby... after awhile I carry him and it isn't long before he decides that he is done.  When I put him down to knock on a door, he cries.  I pop him into the stroller and give him more pretzels and we walk quiet and smoothly now back to the car.  The leaves in the trees are rustling music for us and on the drive home he falls asleep. He is peaceful and, therefore, so am I.

I think a little prayer as I lay him in his crib and listen to his soft even breathing: God, please let us have years and years of  Trick or Treating together... Amen.

What If

What if he said, "I'm sorry".
What if he really, really, meant it.
What if he asked me, "Please, could you ever forgive me?"
What if he understood when I said I couldn't.
What if he said he would spend the rest of forever trying to earn it anyway...
What if he said, "I was so wrong..."
What if he meant it, really really meant it.
What if he told me all the ways he was part of the breaking and destruction... and what if he owned all the things that broke MY heart?

What if he saw the light, the revelation, the truth, the whole entire messy scary thorny disgusting shameful horrible "thing" that was...and was real and authentic, finally?

Would any of it change who I have become?
Would I suddenly be different?
Would I be less angry?
Less scared?
Less worried and tense?
Less full of bitterness and sorrow and regret?
Would I lose the grief I've shouldered every day for more than four years?
Would I be less sure of myself? Less aware of my own heart? Less focused on my children, my soul, my future?
What would happen to my sweet sweet treasure that I was gifted with, the big brown eyes that melt me, the tiny face that spins my heart and soul...my littlest angel who isn't mine alone?

What if suddenly he took all the "I'm sorry"'s that I've given, all the "forgive me"'s that I've sobbed, all the "I was wrong to do this, and that, and say those things" that I've written and said and meant - and he finally believed me, and accepted it.

What if nothing... what if "just this" is "just this" for the rest of forever...

What if this is ok?
What if me, being strong, is better than what was?
What if me, being wiser, is better than what was?
What if my sweet treasure, my littlest angel, could only "be" because of all that came before?
What if all of us, being more mature and with wide open eyes, are stronger and safer and better off than before?
What if what we all have learned leads to something bigger, braver, deeper, truer, and more real than what used to be?

What if, yes, what if this is ok?

Prompt: Does Art Have Power to Cause Change OR Is It Just Pretty To Look At

prompt from English I
9/16/13

Does Art Have Power to Cause Change:

This past weekend, in some random unmemorable way, the topic of orgasms came up while myself and my two teens were hanging out.

My 17 yo son said, "mom, I really don't think we should discuss this in front of Bear!" and I replied, "Buddy, she is almost 16, I'm pretty certain she knows what an orgasm is!"

Well, much conversation ensued in which I discovered that my almost 16 year old daughter does not, indeed, know what an orgasm is and based on my 17 year olds description, when told he could explain, I'm not so sure that even HE knows what one is.  I did not elaborate however, and as is common, other topics came up and orgasms were soon forgotten.

Stay with me... this will relate to art...

Moments later while my son was going on and on and describing the absolute deliciousness of his smoothie, my daughter innocently asked him, "Does it give you hot 'organisms'?"  Lord, I admit, I pee'd my pants a little I laughed so hard. They laughed and I laughed and we all laughed til our sides ached and we were gasping for breath and weak with our own love for each other.

This? This is art: the creation of funny, innocent, smart, creative and joyful kids.  This is art: the love and laughter in a broken family.  This is art: the power of joy and kindness and humor and love, and yes - it CAN change the world.

Late Night Phone Call

She calls when I am just 15 minutes into the show.  It used to be our show.  We would wait all week for Thursday nights, planning for it with excited giggles and imagined events.  When Thursday finally arrived, you would find us gathering snacks and blankets and fluffing up pillows, and then we would take over the couch and the remote control.  I love that she calls right at the moment I have queued up an old rerun of our old show.  It’s karmic. I hope.

I hit pause and answer the phone to hear her wild burst of laughter.  Laughter or hysterical crying? I’m not sure until I hear her voice saying, “Hi mom!”  My brief moment of concern is washed away and replaced by joy.

She tells me that her friends were all just laughing at something funny, reminiscing about their first words as babies.  A topic brought up by my face-book post of her baby brothers first word spoken just that day.  What was her first word? Oh, a four letter word referencing bowel elimination.  Yup.  That sent her off into more giggles and I could hear her friends in the background laughing along with her. They are not surprised, it is apparently still her word of choice, I hear them saying in the background.

It is good to laugh with her.  It is good to be on the phone with her, laughing.  She is my delight but things have been strained lately.  My life and choices, her life and choices, are  all at odds with each other and it’s been hard to find the closeness, the love, the fun, the groove of our hearts beating together as they once did.

We chat some and I avoid anything too tense.  I've written her a letter and she hasn't received it yet so I’ll save the tense stuff for later, tonight I want to just enjoy the laughter.

When we hang up, I start up the show again.  It’s lonelier now, watching this show without her here.  My bowl of snacks and my icy beverage aren't as good, un-shared as they are.  The show isn't as suspenseful without the whispered premonitions and our running commentary.  The theme song at the end makes me weepy and melodramatic.  I laugh at myself a little, do the dishes, and tuck myself into bed.  My daughter, 3000 miles and two time zones away from me is just getting into the groove of her night.  All is as it should be I suppose.   

Weather Proof

I weathered my first week of going back to school.  I got through the first week of Medical Terminology and learning a bazillion prefixes and suffixes and root words.  I wrote an essay, and took a test also. I wore scrubs.  I packed my own lunch. I did my homework.

I weathered an ER trip with my baby which was prefaced by a fall and an obscene amount of blood and incorporated my downstairs neighbors (whom I do not know at all - they come and go in the middle of the night...very creepy) driving me and my screaming bleeding baby to the ER in MY car.

And then weathered a pediatrician visit and a pediatric dentist visit with a baby who did NOT want anyone touching his mouth...but for whom "mouth touching" was a necessity.  Poor boo...

I weathered "THE TALK" with my 17 year old son... oh we've had 'the talk' before but this was about "THE TALK"...as in, "it's going to happen so what do I need to know..."  At least he asked.... ya know?

I weathered some post divorce backlash that left me humiliated, shaking, and demoralized but only very briefly.  I regrouped and remembered who I am, what I'm doing, and what I'm actually worth (and how none of that is dependant on my ex's opinions, or anyone elses for that matter...)  I am reading a book on shame by author Brene Brown.

A friend is weathering a huge personal commitment involving 3 days, camping, and mountains to hike as a fundraiser for battered women.  I'm thinking of thinking about thinking of doing it with her maybe next year...

It's been stormy this week.  But the skies are clearing and I'm none the worse for the weather... I'm feeling calm, strong, and firmly rooted.

Now I'll have a cup of tea, some toast, and take a minute to enjoy the calm.

Two Weeks

My son has been living with me for two weeks now.  After 4 years of every other weekend visits, two weeks seems like the blink of an eye, and an eternity all at the same time. A joyful, amazing, awesome and inspiring blink of eternity...

I suppose that is what life is like though, anything hard as well as anything sublime - time speeds up and slows down all at once for an incredible time-warp sci-fi illusion in your heart.  It must have to do with the fact that even when your heart stops completely in your chest from fear, or anger, or joy, life simply continues on and the mundane minutia of life continues.

I have worked with my son on a final project for school - hours of editing and pulling words out of the air to compose one extra paragraph for an essay, using our imaginations to expose what we think an artist meant to convey by using a certain color - and it has been bonding time for us.  But during those hours camped in front of the computer I have also had to wash dishes, sort laundry, feed the baby, pull the baby out of the garbage/toilet/pantry countless times, taken the dog out to pee, and still had to go to work and come home again.  Like I said, mundane minutia a midst amazing bonding.

I've also had to nag.  Can I say that nagging has been a joyful experience without sounding like I'm mentally unstable?  Actually, my son and I have both enjoyed the nagging.  For me, it's a pleasure to have to remind him to pick up his underwear or wet towel, to move his shoes, to shut the door - because those are words of love, of training, words that a "parent" must speak.  For him, it's been a pleasure because it speaks of love, of attention, of someone looking out for him, words meant to surround him with "mother-ness".  Something he has missed so very much.

I worry.  I worry about my daughter now left behind at her fathers house.  She doesn't seem to mind, really.  Shes a simple soul, easy to please, easy to love, easy going, and is glad that her big brother is safe, happy, and finally at peace here with me.  She is glad there is less stress and fighting in the house where she is.  She is glad, even more so now, to actually spend time with her brother when they are here together.  But I worry anyway.  I worry that she is lonely, alone, defenseless.  She assures me, and so does my son, that there is nothing to worry about.  But isn't that what a mother does? Worries?

Four years of worry... chronic, aching, pinching, overwhelming worry now pared down to two weeks worth concentrated all on her.  Ouch. I'm so tired of worry.

Two weeks of bliss, worry, bonding, nagging, and laundry...  two weeks of a decidedly messier house, a louder house, a busier house, and yet the empty place where my daughter should be seems even MORE noticeable now that I am so aware of her being alone.

My son will be off to college after next year... the time will fly by so fast that I will hardly have time to love him enough before he's gone.  But for now I am going to relish the two weeks we've had and I will let tomorrow take care of itself.

I wonder if you know...

…that I cry for you.

i wonder if you know that i think of you a bajillion times a day, wonder how you are physically and emotionally, what you are wearing and if you are warm enough or clean enough, how you are feeling about yourself or your life, what you are doing when you aren't at home or at school – when you are out there on your own and alone, and full of raw angst over not knowing all of those things innately.

…that I ache for you.

i wonder if you have ever felt the need to be with me, the longing to be held and touched and mothered the way i so desperately need to be with you, hold you, touch you, and mother you like i did before all of this, if you cry for me and i agonize over the image of you needing me.

…that I die a little more without you.

i am not who i used to be, when i was there – and it gets harder and harder with each passing event, to find within me that same spirit, that i am more and more dead to myself, dead to the past, the same way that i see you slipping away as time goes by.

…that I did, indeed, really, do everything I could, within my power, and with my own sense of morals, to avoid this very thing.

i wonder if you think that i didn’t try hard enough, didn’t just produce from thin air the money or time or magical ‘thing’ that would have fixed it all, wonder if you’ve slid into that camp of “against” instead of firmly rooted in “for”.

…that I didn’t do what you might, at a more grown up time, think I should have done, that I didn’t do what he thought I should have done, but that I did what was right to do.

i wonder if you carry the thought that i should have done, should be doing, chose wrong – and in your limited perspective it is the only truth you know or if you carry the conceptual thought that i am doing all that i can and should and holding up my own preservation for the long term benefit and silently rooting me on from the sidelines.

…the sheer strength and courage I possess is admirable and inspiring – that the giving up of something because it preserves it is better than trying to hold too tight and causing the destruction of it – and that is true love.

i wonder if you’ll see the strength for what it is, see the stubborn grasp on courage that i refuse to release, if you’ll be inspired in your life for watching this quiet tenacity at work in me, if you’ll thank me for not causing more damage or if you’ll hate me for not blindly desperately flailing to grasp the very thing i want at all costs just to show that i DO want it.

…that I love you so much…so much…so much…

…or if you’ll think i loved myself more, loved someone else more, or if you’ll feel abandoned when i meant for you to feel safe.

I wonder if I even want you to know...

Kings or Rebels

He has one gray hair.  Just one.  One silver strand of hair mingled into his silky mop of brown.  It's been there since birth I assume, but I only noticed it a week or so after, once he'd been bathed and shampoo'ed and had lost that glowing pink newborn color and settled into his real live skin color - peaches and cream of course.

Now, at almost 11 months, I look for that single silver strand every time I hold him close. I rake my fingers through the slippery silk of his baby fine gold/red/brown hair and seek out that one special strand.  I will be heartbroken when I can no longer find it.

It reminds me of the story of the Rainbow fish with all her beautiful scales and how she finally learned to share.  I wonder if some angel somewhere decided to share some special angel beauty and my son received it as a single strand of silver in his hair.

I think about how when God touches you, you are indelibly marked forever more as HIS.  Is this single silver strand the mark of God upon my child?

I love that single gray hair. I love every hair on his little round head, every lash lining his huge brown eyes, but I treasure that lone gray hair. I imaging Mary treasuring over Jesus, over his curls or his eyelashes, or the sweetness of his dimpled knuckles. Us mothers, on the whole, we treasure our babies be they kings or rebels.

Good Night Son

Four years.

Four first day of school days each of the past four Septembers.  Four last day of school days each of the past four Junes.

Four of every imagineable holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Fourth of July, Mothers Day... Birthdays...

Four years of missing out.

Four years worth of "go take a shower" and "is your homework done?", and "I said turn off the lights, it's way past bedtime".

Four years worth of dinner around the table and holding hands for saying grace and "get your elbows off the table" and "use your napkin NOT your jeans!" and "eat your veggies...okay half... ok fine, three bites... no that doesnt' count as a bite... fine just clear your plate".  Four years worth of sighing.

Four years worth of, "wake up, good morning!" and "are you up?" and, "lets go, come on!" and,  "GET UP!" and "RUNRUNRUN we're late!"

Four years of uncountable things gone, missed, lost, irretrievable.

Four years worth of every other Saturday, 9-9 only.

Four years worth of  "Good night son, I love you, sleep tight, sweet dreams..." uttered only to myself and the shadows in an empty room.

But last night... last night I rustled up sheets, blankets, an extra pillow.  Never mind that it was 90 degrees, and humid, I was going to make a proper bed up with sheets and blankets and pillows.  Last night I found clean towels and a bedside lamp and an extra charger for the mp3.  And then... oh God, I tucked my son into bed, in MY house, and said, "Good night son, I love you, sleep tight, sweet dreams..."

He is more than 6 feet tall now.  He has man hair on his arms and legs.  He has muscled biceps and stubble on his cheeks. He smells not of sweaty little boy, and grass, and cookies, but of deodorant, of "man".  And I hugged him and tucked him in and slept in the same house with my little boy for the first time in four years.

I woke up and made his lunch.  I nagged him to hurry, to get his book, did he remember his key, his water bottle, his backpack?  I drove him to his high school and joined the line of parents dropping off their kids.  Just like I used to do four years ago before our lives changed.  It was instinctual though, the merging into the carpool lane and inching forward little by little, the nagging...  He said goodbye as he unfolded himself out of the car, and I said, "See ya later Bud, have a good day" just like any other parent.

Four years gone... but yet this one day was heaven.

Tonight I pray will be another night I can hug him and whisper to him, "Goodnight son, I love you..."

Milestones

I know I have bad breath - I just slammed a cup of coffee after eating a handful of veggie chips and I reach for a peice of gum so that when I start yelling at him, face to face, he won't be blasted away by my coffee-and-chip breath.  Then I stop.  He deserves to be blasted by my nasty coffee-and-chip breath, I think to myself.  And with a little self satisfied smirk, I grab my keys and head for the door, leaving my gum behind.

When he pulls up in the parking lot, I am ready.  I have my words all rehearsed and ready to go.  Words fly around my brain like little springtime gnats: Respect, Honor, Responsible, Disappointed,  Do What You Say, Communication... but all the words fly away from me as I see him step from the car.

He is so tall now.  He topped 6 feet a few months ago, and while he is still lanky, long-limbed and narrow in the shoulders, his face is getting stronger, his arms fuller, his facial hair defined, even the hair on his arms seems more manly now.  This son of mine, so amazing to my eyes, so joyful to my heart, how can I be so angry at this miracle of mine?

He has a stubborn set to his jaw, I know he too is angry, annoyed, irritated, whatever it is that teenagers  feel when confronted with parents and rules and boundaries. I look at that face with it's newly defined jaw and cheekbones, the smooth skin where he has obviously just shaved (like I told him to via text message) and I remember the sweet pink roundness of him at 4 - his eyes so huge and brown with those thick long lashes that only boys get.  His eyes are the same and I soften a little.

I hug him and he tolerantly pats my shoulder.  I am not a big person, I come barely to his chest and when he is in a teasing mood he wraps his arms around my head and buries my face in his armpit. Not this time though.  This time I get that tolerant shoulder pat.  I look up, up, up at him and I say, with all seriousness, "Come closer, I want you to smell my breath!"

As we walk into the store I tell him how I was so mad that I wanted him to have to deal with the yelling, the lecture, AND the bad breath and by now we are both laughing a bit.  He apologizes and I say, "Well, that's nice, but I still get to yell at you later ok?" He says, "I know, I know!" and we go about the business of getting him employed.

Another milestone for him is right under his feet.  Like always, from the day he took his first steps, I am there beside him to encourage him, cheer him on, and catch him if he falls.