My baby, who’s really not my baby, because my baby-baby is about to be 12…. This baby is 17.


I gave birth to this humongous human being 17 years ago.  Thank the Lord he was not as humongous then.  I mean, that would be torturous, would it not?  He’s over 6 feet tall, now!  His head is as big as his whole body was when I pushed him out, leisurely, while languishing in the effects of an all-powerful epidural.

Look.  I don’t claim to be Super Woman.

I have nothing to prove.

In fact, I believe I am the wiser, more intelligent one when compared to my friends who brag that they gave birth without any meds.

I wouldn’t say it to their faces; I just smile and nod and say, “Oh my.  You are woman, hear you roar.”  But, secretly, I am thinking, “What big dummies!  What does that prove?  It just proves they were not thinking clearly enough to ask for an epidural!  I was the smart one!  I was the comfortable one!  I had drugs!”  (In fact, I told my anesthesiologist that I loved him.  I did.  ThrillCam was out of the room while he administered my shot.  I said, “I love the father of my baby more than spit, but right now, at this very moment, I love you more.”  And, it was true.)

But, let’s not get sidetracked.

My boy is 17.  Which is so very hard to believe.  How can it be that my oldest son is no longer sleeping in my arms, or playing for hours with his NASCAR Hot Wheels, or  wearing his Teen Titans Robin costume, or jumping his ramp on his bike or skateboard? How is it that he is driving and his voice is low and his body is tall?  How is it that he is quiet and reserved, has feelings and thoughts I’ll never know about?  How is it that one day, he will confide those thoughts and feelings to a girl who will love him unconditionally….but never, never as much as his momma?

How can it be that he will soon, too soon, be leaving our happy, little nest.

(And, yes.  He WILL be leaving.)

I plan to cherish every moment we have left with him–about a year and a half, at this point.  Because once he’s gone to college, he will no longer belong to me.  He will be the world’s, so to speak.  I will, from that point on, have to compete for his attention and love.   And compete, I will.

I console myself with the fact that I’m his momma.  Only me.

No one, ever, will have that privilege, or honor, of holding that title, just me alone.

Happy Birthday, son.  I am proud to be your mother.



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