I couldn’t reach him at first, separated by a congregation of friends and relatives, him on one side, me on the other, so I had to content myself with watching him. He was unaware of my presence and for a rare second I was able to witness the boy he has become without any eye rolling or clowning. Somewhere along the path of time, he has come to look like the man his father once was. I’d never noticed the similarities before.

I watched him smile freely to those around him and I waited for him to notice me. For a brief second, I worried my son would be teenaged enough not to care I was there.

I was wrong to worry. He is still boy enough to light up when he sees me. I fervently hope that never changes.

I had to stand on my tippy toes to put my arms around him and bury my nose in his neck. He turned fourteen and this was the first birthday where his body no longer fit alongside mine. Fourteen years was all it took.

He stood there, stoic, as my arms were wrapped tight around him and let me breathe in his scent. He smelled of boyhood, a perfume mixed of sweat, outdoors and innocence. I smelled of airplane and stress. He patted my back as I whispered apologies in his ear for not being the first person in the world to wish him a happy birthday, the first person to hold him tight, as I have always done in the past. It was the first birthday of his that I hadn’t been there to witness his arrival in a new year.

In those few moments as I held him tighter than I probably should have, I struggled to reign in my emotions. The tick tock of passing time is loud in my ears and I am all too cognizant that my time in his life as an active participant is limited and winding down.

He’s getting too old to need me the way he once did. I’m getting too old to feel this young.

I once worried about the man he would grow to be, but as he steps closer into his adulthood I no longer worry about that. I won’t waste my worry on who he will become because I’m confident in whom he is. Instead, I’ll worry over what the future holds for him and fret about not finding my place in it.

With yet another set of birthday candles blown out, my contract of motherhood closes in on expiration. As I stroke his hair I find myself wishing children didn’t grow so fast. I squeeze my eyes firmly shut to hold back the prick of tears that suddenly threaten to fall as memories of past birthdays, skinned knees and dinky cars race through my mind.

He’s a boy straddling the line of adulthood.

No matter how tall, or how old he grows, he will still always be my boy.

As my arms fell to my side, he bent down and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised as he raced off to go play with the other kids.

I’m going to hold him to that promise.

As he races to his future I hope he remembers to wait for me.

Happy birthday kid. I love you more everyday. 

Thirty-six years ago today, a young woman gave birth to a squalling infant.

That infant would be me.

My birth day. Literally.

That squalling infant grew into a precocious child.

Precocious is generally a polite word for ‘annoying know it all’.

Gr.1. I remember that shirt. It was not the last plaid shirt with a bow around my neck that I would wear.

The precocious child grew into a sullen tweenie bopper.

She wore her hair like a boy’s and spent most of her days in red stirrup sweat pants and an over-sized red and white striped sweatshirt.

Her fashion sense has not improved much since then.

Ten. My grandma baked that cake. Sigh. Caaaaake.

Time slipped past and suddenly that sullen tweenie bopper wakes to find herself staring smack into age 36.

She wishes she had cake. Or a hair brush.

Oh yay! 36! Sweet baby Jeebus, how did this happen?

Thanks Mom, for you know, the whole gestation and birthing thing you did for me. It was probably the best gift you ever gave me. Almost as good as the bike you and Dad gave me on Christmas morning but not near as cool as that framed portrait of John Wayne you once gave me.

Still. Life. I have it.

36 years of it, thanks to you and Dad. Thanks for the giving me the gift of life.

I’m still waiting on that pony I asked for though.

Just sayin’.

Just kidding Mom. Maybe.

When my husband and I adopted Jumby, we didn’t really think about what he’d be bringing home  with him. We were more concerned of the vast quantity of unknowns that comes with the closed adoption of a victimized five year old.

We worried about not knowing his biological history and we worried we didn’t have a firm grasp on his medical issues. We worried about not knowing his preferences and we fretted over not having any pictures of him from his past.

We never worried about his personal belongings because we took for granted that everyone accumulates an assortment of items to call their own, even at the tender young age of five.

We were mistaken.

Our son came home with the clothes on his back, his wheelchair, his personal medical equipment, a bath seat and a ratty old blanket his former foster parents used to wrap him up like a burrito when he was ‘acting out.’

We promptly trashed the ratty blanket when we got home. Jumby acts out about as much as fish in a bowl. He’s awesome like that.

I can’t replace the lost memories of my son’s infancy or toddler years, nor can I acquire a complete medical history for my son unless I invited the very people who first victimized him back into his life.

But I could start giving the child his very own wardrobe to call his own. And boy have I done so with a vengeance.

Thanks to Babble and Old Navy offering the Jumbster a 150 dollar gift card for a sponsored shopping trip, I’ve been able to stuff even more clothes into his closet.

Jumby’s new shirt reads: If you can read this you are in my way. Seriously, I’m gonna need you to move over a little. Which, for a boy in a wheelchair, it’s the total truth.

Everyone needs new kicks now and then. Especially helpful if the kicks fit over his AFO’s and can’t be easily kicked off every two minutes. 

If you’d like to read more about Jumby’s little shopping adventure and witness him be the best little Zoolander out there, head on over to Hogwash from a Hoser.

There’s links to a printable coupon you can use to get 30% off one item in the store, but more importantly, there are cute ass pictures of my kid up over there.

(What can I say? Sometimes the mommy blogger in me comes out loud and proud.)