Why is ten so hard for a momma? It's that darn second digit, the one that sneaks up and inserts itself between a boy and little-boy-ness, edging him closer to manhood.
My oldest boy, Adam, is ten today. I look at his long legs, his strong hands, his broadening shoulders and the forehead that reaches my chin. And, more than usual, I think (with a twinge of sadness) of the baby that once could fit in the crook of my arm.
But the sadness doesn't last.
Because I look back at my boy, and who he is...
...a boy who loves to learn.
...a boy who can deliver a perfect punchline.
...a boy who intuitively reaches for his little sister's hand in a parking lot.
...a boy who passed me in math skills years ago.
...a boy who considers others.
...a boy with the fastest video game fingers on the planet.
...a boy who has learned, better than his mom, that it isn't courage unless you're afraid first.
I see that boy, and I'm so glad he's mine, and I'm so thankful to have a front row seat for his life. I wouldn't go back to those sweet baby days, as precious as they were. To go back is to miss who he is right now.
And I wouldn't miss that for the world.
Happy birthday, my sweet boy. You make Dad and me so proud.
