Eighteen

At this time of the night, eighteen years ago, I was holding a sweet-smelling-squeaker mouse with a head full of black fluffy fur for hair on his head. His dark eyes wide. His long, thin fingers wrapped around my own. Not having watched him grow up makes it strange to me that there is, somewhere out there, a child that is an official adult -- old enough to vote, to be drafted, to get married (legally...not necessarily developmentally), old enough to be called a "man".

I've heard people say that they "feel old" because their children are teens or adults. I just feel like me. I'm not 17 anymore, but she's certainly in there. I'm bolder than I was then and more assertive. I live outside of my books and I don't believe every word other people tell me (the benefit of my doubt is usually for my own purposes). I'm less innocent and more tender. I've stopped daydreaming and live in the right now.

If he were here, I'd be getting him ready to graduate or go off to college. He might be talking about a mission or a scholarship or a new car or his girlfriend. He might never be home or I might be fighting him off of the computer games...who knows. The thing is, that's the most I've "what iffed" the choice to place him for adoption ever (for the purposes of this blog) because it was the right decision and so much would have changed. Here he is, in this special place in my heart. Forever. From 18 seconds to 118 and beyond.

Happy Birthday, Son.