Eleven

Eleven years ago,

I went in to the hospital.

My head swollen with eagerness and anticipation,

my body swollen with life, ready to be born.

On this day,

my son who had been hidden from my view

for three seasons

would make his appearance

and all the questions that had been asked and wondered

would begin to be answered.

What color would his hair be? {blond}

What color would his eyes be? {startlingly blue}

Who would he look like? {my brother}

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Thus began my adventure with my sweet middle child.

Chris was the most calm of the babies I carried in my womb.

He would move in slow, lazy, languishing movements.

I could feel his fingers moving slowly, rhythmically,

deep in my pelvic floor.

I saw those same hand and finger movements

after his birth.

Hands up beside his face, tiny fingers flexing open and closed

one by one.

"I knew you," I would whisper into his tiny seashell ear

as I held him in the midnight hours,

"Even before I saw you, I knew these movements you make

and I loved you as my son."

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And love that boy I do, that big eleven year old boy.

Caught between childhood and adolescence,

sometimes I am startled by the sight of him.

Surely he has not grown so much over night!

How did he get to be so tall so soon?

I see him occasionally flexing his arms and sneaking a peek

at his biceps.

Every now and again he will ask if I think his voice is changing.

Not quite yet, dear boy.

It will happen soon enough.

Give your mom's heart a little more time to prepare.