When you were little boys, milestones were pebbles plunking down every which way. A new word babbled. A favorite foo discovered. A motor skill mastered. At 18, 20, 21, and so on, milestones are more like flat paver stones marking a walkway. Weeds will grow amongst the rocks, an occasional wildflower popping up in a burst of purple or yellow. It’s now that the days morph into years so swiftly because you will be away more than you are here.
I learned to accomplish so many tasks one-handed because you demanded I carry you much of the day. My arms and shoulders ached, my gait was off, and my left hip felt like it would be permanently shifted to the side where I rested you. Now you tower over me, a distance only expanding as you grow and I shrink. And a geographic distance as time zones separate us. Growth is good I tell myself. Growth comes with pain, and in the case of mothering, the pain puddles into pride.
You, my Bird and Deal make me proud. You have grown to be men of character.
I love you to the moon and back.
Mom
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