June. Summer Solstice. The end of the school year. Dance recitals at work. And two of my boys have birthdays. (Out of respect for them both, I made sure I asked their permission to use their names and pictures.)
My oldest son, Alex, was due on the summer solstice, but he was a week overdue. My middle son, Victor, was due the day before the summer solstice, and thankfully he was born a couple of days early. I was, and still am, grateful they didn’t share the same birthday.
It seems so long ago, and yet just yesterday that I was holding them in my arms, rocking them to sleep, watching them take their first steps and hearing their first words.
Very soon, my oldest turns 16, and my middle son turns 12. Alex is taller than me now, and pretty soon he will be learning to drive. Victor is almost as tall as me (and I’m NOT a short woman!), and his feet are as big as mine already (again, that’s quite a feat).
This journey as a parent has been quite the adventure. Half the time I have been afraid of screwing them up because they don’t come with instructions, and while they have some similarities, they are two definitely different individuals.
I’m so proud of the young men they are turning into, though. As they venture out more and more into their independence, I see them through the eyes of others, and what I see is brilliant, charming, and respectful.
I am blessed to have a positive relationship with both of them. They still come up and give me hugs, and talk to me about their lives.
These tears that are falling from my eyes right now grieve the babies and little boys that have grown, and they are tears of pride for the young men that are growing up before my eyes.