It is the eve of my youngest son's thirteenth birthday. How this happens, I do not know. I mean I do. Know how it happens, I mean. But that doesn't make it any easier.
If I am the twenty-three years old that I feel, then math would show that he was born when I was ten. And while this is not impossible, for me, when I was ten, it would have been. Alas, I am a thirty-five year old mother reflecting on the eve of her baby's thirteenth birthday. If he read this he'd be embarrassed. That's where we are now. He loves me, but I embarrass him.
I've made his favorite chocolate peanut butter cream pie. He requested BLT's for birthday dinner which we'll have with sweet potato fries. And I'll look in his blue eyes and see a newborn, a chubby baby, a toddler, a quick little boy, a pre-teen, and a thirteen year old...all at once. That's how motherhood sees. All the memories, all the scenes of life, and even the scenes into the future, the what-may-be's, the hopes for life.
Happy birthday my boy.
In other news...I caught a fish the other day. We spent the day up at our favorite lake. I built a campfire and we roasted hot dogs. Austin and I rowed around the lake, admiring a big heron that we startled out of his fishing post and a magnificent osprey, also spooked by our presence. Aaron and I took a turn in the canoe for awhile, fishing. I hooked a really pretty rainbow trout and impressed my husband. That's all I set out to do anyway.