21 years ago. . .

The thought of being a parent had never scared me; in my teaching career I often felt parental responsibilities, and I relished them.  I had lived a full life, I thought, before my son was born in 1991.  Was there really that much more to experience?  I tired of the day to day baby stuff early, and started to panic more than once at the end of a sleepless day-turned into-night-turned back into day when he was a newborn.  Could I really do this?

As the years went by, the burden of care seemed lighter.  The daily battles were few, but there were some.  Every new school year brought changes that he fought.  More than once I carried him into a classroom squirming.  How would it look, I would say to him, to have a teacher whose own son hates school?  School started to become fun; reading became a habit, then a joy; and the artwork started.

One of the first beautiful works he created, that I still have framed and hung, was a watercolor rendition of New York’s Central Park, one he completed at age eleven. The healing after  9/11 was difficult—maybe a turning point in growing up.  The house fire.  Sparky’s death.  The hard year between tenth and eleventh grade.  They were all there for us to learn from, to experience together and make changes over.

Now, 21 years old.  I thought I could never be this lucky or happy.  We communicate; we don’t always agree, but we listen, and learn.  His college experience is exemplary, and he is a creative, kind, unselfish, loving person who I am proud to know and even prouder to be a parent of.  My crystal ball from my 21^st birthday would never have been able to contain all the joy of my future with my wonderful son, Nathan.  Happy birthday, mijo!