A Mother's Memories

Today, my oldest son turns 30. Today, I am the mother of a son who is 30. But all that makes him 30 are those years before. I hold the memories of each of those years, and although he holds more of the recent ones, I hold more of those first years.

Those first years that children grow and learn and experience life but don't seem to remember too well as they get older. For when you are 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1 your life is in the present and not so much about what is past. It is a funny thing about memory. Ironically now for me, I have a hard time remembering what is in the present, yet memories of the past come flooding back.

He was the first of the first when he was born, with many doting relatives. From the beginning, he thrived on constant motion. Playpens and baby swings waited for our next son. He never crawled, he just got up and ran. No one word babblings, he talked sentences at 9 months. He entertained everyone with whole songs. His confidence shown around him and any insecurities, he tucked away tightly. Buddy, his blanket, and his thumb, were all he needed to keep him safe.

Heading off to kindergarten was the only time I remember he ever cried and didn't want to go. I tried staying for a while and then leaving but nothing seemed to work. At wits end, I finally resorted to telling him that it was the 'law' that all children go to kindergarten and he must go. After that, he seemed to resolve himself and accept the fact that it was going to happen.

By first grade, he walked with his father to the bus stop, and told him to hide behind the tree when the bus came so none of the kids would see his dad waiting with him.

Once when we went to Disney, the boys' carry ons were checked at the last minute and somehow didn't make the right connections. Buddy was lost between flights for several days and while he spent sleepless nights with tears, I frantically called the airlines trying to locate the little yellow bag with the car on it and buddy inside. Over the years, buddy became smaller and smaller and had to be handwashed to protect 'his' fragile condition. Now buddy, a tiny rag held together with love and knots, resides in Steve's old dresser drawer with other pieces of the past that hold special memories.

His enthusiasm for life shines brightly. His confidence drives him in all that he aspires to. He is his own person, but woven through are the threads of his life that are his grandparents, and his dad, and me. I am the mother of a 30 year old and I treasure the years that got him there.