A decade ago today, my whole life changed.
I think, in hindsight, I was probably too young and too naive for such a change, but I asked for it, and hot damn did I ever get it. As of 11:20-something on April 14th, 1998, almost two weeks past when it was "due" to happen, not one thing about me has remained unchanged.
And thank god for that.
Everything I thought I loved, everything I imagined meant any little thing to me, is long gone. Every vinyl album, every trinket of my past, every book I've ever wanted to read, or movie I wanted to watch, every man I've ever loved; none of it really matters all that much.
I still really like solitude. I just grew accustomed to living without it. I still really like books and movies. I just look at them like little treats now. I still really, REALLY love being in love, and the whole dance that goes with it, but I have learned that this love, this little boy, is so much more and better and grand than anything I will ever know otherwise.
I held a tiny person in my arms, under my chin, to my chest and in my lap, and I dreamed. I dreamed of first birthdays and bike rides. I dreamed of trick or treats and kindergarten. I never dreamed of today, of this, of a decade. I couldn't; it was too far away, like trying to picture the infinity of space. Even now when it's here upon me, I cannot fathom the fact that it's been 10 years. That I have kissed his sweet face and tucked him into his bed 3,650 times. That I have spent (almost) every single day with him and have witnessed every step, every inch of growth, both inside and out. That little baby, who's voice I tried to imagine when I closed my eyes at night, now speaks of things I never knew, of interests that are not from me but of his own yearning to learn.
He is trying to separate from me now, wanting independence and responsibility and relationships outside our family. He wants so much to be his own man, and yet, in tiny little ways, he still needs his momma, even though he'd never admit it. When he realizes that he left every stinking Gameboy game he owns in the car and now they're gone, he doesn't go to his room to cry. He comes to me still. He buried his head in my lap and he sobs while I rub his curly little head. He still sits on the kitchen stool while I make him a little chocolate something to ease the sadness. He still lets me brush his teeth every once and a while, still lets me help pick out his outfits and tie his shoes...he is still my baby, if only for a little while more.
I never thought I wanted this. I never thought I could do this. Ten years, one decade later, I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life, because I realize today that this was the only full decade I will ever get with him. The next time we hit this mark, he'll be busily pursuing a degree or a career or a girl. He won't be under my roof. He won't share the early hours in the morning with me before the rest of the family gets up. He'll be his own, and will have achieved the independence that he is fighting for right now, and I don't want to imagine life without this. Without him. He is the greatest thing I have ever done, and he has changed and reshaped me more than any other person or thing could ever hope to.
And I don't just mean like this.
Ten years ago, I didn't have this:
I most certainly didn't have this or this:
I couldn't have imagined the sound of his voice or the gait of his walk:
I couldn't have guessed if he was a lefty or a righty:
I had no idea that he would have the biggest green eyes and he'd have freckles on his nose:
I tried to imagine him in a car seat or a crib, but I never dreamed that he'd be a man, among other men:
But I do know that because I got him, I also got him:
And also, because of him, I can haz cheezburger:
Goodbye, my darling 9 year old. I'm gonna miss you. I hope the 10 year old you that I will meet tomorrow morning is as awesome as the 9 year old was.
See all of Sarcastic Mom's Weekly Winners here.
Tiff is a mother of seven. That's onetwothreefourfivesixseven children. I have half that and I am commitable. I don't know HOW I first met her; I just tripped and fell over her one day on the blog. And I stalked her for a long time, and now, we're buddies.
I love Tiff for a thousand little reasons. She can write a whole posts about doormats. She has beautiful kids, and takes lots of pictures of them, she's not as wordy as I am because she finds the right words the first time, every time.
Oh, and she makes me cry big fat chunky tears that make make my throat burn and make my eyes feel like I haven't slept in a week. Schindler's List cry. E.T. cry. (Shut up, I was 8 or something.) Only one other blogger thus-far, ever, has made me cry like that. She's next on my to-do list.
Tiff is one of the two bravest women that I have had the honor of becoming friends with through this zaney thing they call an internet. She is an advocate for her children, all seven of them, even the little baby up in heaven.
Maybe I don't believe in heaven, but I believe that her William is in heaven, and I don't care who tells me otherwise.
The best thing about Tiff is that when I asked her for a word or two about her for this post, she described herself better than I ever could:
This is me:
Old. Very old. I'm not kidding. What? Almost 36 is old.
Jelly like. After six children, I'm almost proud to write that.
Tone factor; Zero. Care factor even less.
Did I mention mother?
To alot of kids.
Yes, I DO know what a TV is.
Five of my own and two foster boys.
I know I said I had birthed six...
I've got an angelbaby.
I like photography, scrapbooking and fighting with our paediatrician.
Oh, and I like to write.
On my blog.
One more thing.
I'm an Australian.
Don't hold that against me.
Aussies are cool...
at least WE think we are!
Do yourself a favor...go spend a little time with her. She is wonderful.
Next up; Loralee. Dude, I told you I was outting our love.
I have been cheating on all of you. About a month ago, I met someone else. Her name is Kelby. We instantly fell in love. Kelby asked me out, and I accepted, and now, about once a week, I wash out my potty mouth and put on my Responsible Outfit and my hot shoes and I go hang out with her.
Last week, without you knowing it, I shared with you one of our exchanges. And you know what? None of you threw rocks at me, no one mentioned the fact that I went one whole post without dropping an F-Bomb. In light of that, I have decided to come clean.
I am blogging somewhere else. Somewhere called Type A Mom. Somewhere where I use my real (first) name and actually attempt, however pathetically, to offer advice. About pre-teens. Yes, that means No Springing the Poop on You. No pictures of my kid in black face. No baby talk at all.
Turns out, writing a mommy blog without talking about toddlers is hard.
I am trying anyway, and, well, um, no one is reading it. It's a fairly new site. We are on Alltop, though, and if you haven't checked out Alltop yet, you really should. It's Guy Kawasaki's new project, highlighting the best of the best of the blogs (and mine, pity link) and Guy has Excellent Taste in blogs. If you want it, it's there. Check it, yo.
Anyway, maybe you wouldn't mind popping in occasionally and telling me to shut the hell up or threaten to call Child Services on me or something? You can find me in the Pre-Teens section. I'll be waitin'....