It’s strange when your child has a birthday and they no
longer live in your house. Wishing him
“happy birthday” was not in person, it was in a text, Facebook and phone
messages. I haven’t spoken with my first
born today, and twenty years ago, I experienced the first amazing rush of
unconditional love for my first child.
It’s strange to not see him or hear his voice or give him a hug.
I've been told that this is what we do. We bear them, we raise them and we send
them. We trust that the time spent in
teaching and guiding and preparing them has given them the tools to be out in
the great big world, finding their own journey toward their own definition of
success.
This may sound like a lament, and I suppose, in a way, it
is. I’m sad I didn't get to embrace our
son on one of those “milestone” birthdays.
But at the same time, I’m really proud of who he is and I trust that he
is finding the best way to become who he wants to be.
Whenever I watch the credits at the end of a film I dream of
the day his name will be there. I
believe that one day I will be in the audience of a film awards program sitting
next to him when we hear that a film he worked on wins for his cinematography
expertise.
He’s a pretty amazing young man. He works full time and is taking three
classes. He even has a little part-time
gig. He bought his first round of
groceries—buying $1000 worth of food and supplies for 40+% off. He’s a chip off my coupon-clipping, sale-shopping
block! He isn't afraid to say “I love
you” when I talk to him, and he gives warm hugs—sometimes without my asking!
Twenty years ago my title changed. I am forever a mom. Best.
Job. Ever.