Images of a Man

There is something about these photos that gets to me. I don't know what it is. Something about them wraps itself around my heart and squeezes just a little too tight. They're so beautiful, and they capture so perfectly the essence of who my son is for me. I love these images, and yet, every time I look at them I get a lump in my throat. Maybe it's just that he is my first baby, the precious little boy who made me a mother eighteen years ago... and today he looks (and sounds) like a man. He IS a man now, and I can't wrap my mind around it. Every time I look at him, I picture the cherubic toddler with the enormous blue eyes and the wispy blond hair, reaching his arms up to me and asking "Hold you?" I still see the baby in the young man's face. I still get flooded with emotion when we talk, and he laughs. The young man doesn't trust me without reservation like the baby did. I can't convince him that I love him unconditionally. I can't convince him that I understand him. I can't convince him that every mistake I made in raising him was made inside of my desire to always do what was best for him... to always protect him, take care of him, and make sure that I sent him off into the world well equipped to handle life however it came at him. I was single, I was overwhelmed, and in many ways, I think that he raised himself. Maybe I failed to do my job. Maybe all children raise themselves to some extent. I don't know.
Here's what I do know. He is exquisite. He is brilliant, creative and articulate. He is honorable and strong. He is at once analytical and ideological. He is clever, funny, and warmhearted. He is a musician and an artist. He's a dreamer. He will do things and go places that neither he nor I can imagine right now. I love him more than I could ever express, and my heart breaks for every hurt he has quietly endured. I am deeply honored to be his mom, and I will always be proud of him. Always.