I Heart My Son

Well, that was frustrating, wasn't it?  Long time no Blogger.  Lost some comments from yesterday's post -- 

Be sure to sign up for the giveaway!  I'll probably run it an extra day or two, because of the down time.

[My Westerland Rose -- Linkup to My Romantic Home]

Anyway . . . last night my son and I had a belated Mother's Day dinner together.  He's 26, lives about 90 miles from me, and has a life of his own, so it's not that often that we get together.  I was so happy to spend time with him (and the mole enchiladas were delicious).

I was thinking about how the roles change over time -- I'm sure that there will be much bigger changes in the future, but I noticed something last night.  Remember when you had (or have) toddlers, and you're always grabbing for their hands?  One of his favorite things to do at about age two was to run away from me in a parking lot -- he thought it was very, very funny to do that, throw his poor mother into an absolute panic.  I'd have to use my knee to hold him against the car while I got my purse out and closed the door . . . and then grab his hand and hang onto it for dear life.

Later, of course, the last thing boys want to do is hold their mother's hand -- by fourth or fifth grade, he refused (and also told me not to say hi to him if I was ever at his school on PTA-related business).  By the teenage years, holding hands, hugging, even being seen with your mom is the last thing you want to do, so that kind of thing was pretty much verboten.  (The one exception was the morning of 9/11, when we sat on the couch for hours, holding onto each other.)

But -- wonder of wonders -- an adult son will allow you to slip your arm through his, to give him a hug, will say "I love you, Mom," and even once in a while say that something you did was good (e.g., you don't totally suck at photography).  Walking toward the restaurant, my arm slipped through his, I felt proud of him and protected and supported and so happy with the man he's become.  I heart you, Devin --