This boy-child of mine turned 10 today. Ten. I am still not sure how that happened.
Part of me believes that the milestone is his alone and yet I know that his narrative is a portion of my own. Or at least some of it - the part that he shares with me and the pieces of family life we lead as a unit and not as individuals.
Any mother has a deep sense of who their child is. But it strikes me that as they grow older, this is based on less and less tangible evidence. A function of their fuller lives and their need to develop independence from us.
When Mark was small, he didn't sleep and he craved constant interaction. I spent hour upon hour pacing the swirly grey carpet. Singing, rocking him, reading to him. It was exhausting to the point that I completely lost the ability to see the bigger picture. And I was at a pretty low ebb, when a woman named Janice gave me the gift of her wisdom. She told me that in these hours, these endless extra hours that I spent with him, I would receive the gift of really knowing my child.
I know this boy, and I find myself willing that over the next ten years, that there are enough glimpses into his existence as an individual for me to continue to know him. It is, indeed, a privilege.