“I have a son, who is my heart. A wonderful young man, daring and loving and strong and kind.”
Maya Angelou
This past year my son has branched out of his comfort zone to play football and baseball. In two weeks his team will play on the playoffs, even though I believe we are dead last. But that’s ok. He’s had a good time. He’s made friends. He learned to stand at the plate and finally put his elbow out instead of tucked in like a baby bird.
My baby bird is still in the nest, but branching out. His voice is deepening and he’s getting a little fuzz above his lip, but he’s still in the nest. I still see him with his Spider-Man blanket, giggling while watching cartoons on my iPad. He sheepishly covers the iPad screen when watching cartoons because he doesn’t want us to think of him as “a little kid.” He still says his prayers and tells his dad and I “goodnight, I love you” each night. He asks for change to ride his bike to go to the vending machine by the pool clubhouse to buy a Powerade. He asks for sips of my iced coffee. He says he feels so dirty when he wears shoes without socks, but thinks nothing of not showering after a baseball game.
We’re in a strange place between boyhood and teenager. I’m trying to get used to it. One thing stays the same. He is my heart.
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