You don't need me to tell you that "time flies."
We've all heard it. We all know it.
But when you have children, time seems to fly supersonically.
Like a film fast-forwarded, burning up the screen.
Twelve years ago, I burst into hot tears at the first sight of him.
Tears of immense relief, of a certain brand of happiness I'd never known before.
There had been two miscarriages along the way: grey uncertainty, black sadness.
And yet: Here he was!
Our first child, our son.
What is the most powerful word for "grateful"?
For the highest, brightest peak of grateful? I can't find it now, but I feel it deep under my skin.
Epitome-of-grateful for a tiny baby boy, born twelve years ago today.
Not a baby anymore, and almost -- almost! -- taller than I am (which isn't tall, but still...) .
Someday (very soon) my son will look down upon the top of my head,
look down upon his mother,
his epitome-of-grateful mother who loves him more and more each day,
more than any words can say.
Children are like the most precious of days: Born, growing, glowing, gone.
I'm in no rush.
Let's stretch out the spinning minutes --
close our eyes,
and make a wish.
Happiest of happy birthdays to you, Z.
With so much love,
Mom xox
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