My son

My son. Those two little words are capable of moving mountains in a mother’s life. My son. Two words summoning forth a tidal wave of emotion – a powerful surge of parental love.

My son. The tiny being I carried right under my heart for nine months. I marveled as you made your debut into the world – completely dependent upon my commitment to you, my willingness to care for you, to love you, to help you become the man you were destined to be.

My son. A miniature man dashing through the year, crushing flowers in your hand – delivering me from piles of laundry, a sink full of dishes, unmade beds, and low-vaulted wishes into an expanse of unbridled affection and uninhibited expression. My son. Still needing my affirmation, my understanding, my appreciation, and my respect.

My son. A man in the making, a heart like putty in my hands. My son. A life so vital, so vibrant, so full of promise, just waiting to take flight, assume your independence, fulfill your calling, make your mark, and express your masculine soul.

My son.


* I wish I could claim this as my own, but I can not. This was taken from one of my Mommy calandars that have inspirational quotes and stories. *