My baby boy turned nine last week. Nine years old! I'm cursing my bad memory for forgetting all the moments I've had with him. I wish I could play all of them back, over and over and over, like a soothing lullaby.
The night before his birthday, as I kissed him goodnight, I cried. He cried, too. It was a beautiful and terrible moment all at once. Time stood still for a few seconds; I remember the first time I held him; I thought I could see him going off to college. I breathed in his goodness, his loyalty, his faith, his fun.
His boyhood.
He awakened on his birthday with excited eyes and a shiny soul. He felt older. He seemed older.
He spent the day in his Spiderman costume, wielding Mjölnir, dressing his sister in a Spiderman costume from a past birthday and carrying her on his back around the house, fighting crime together.
There is nothing--nothing--in the world like a son. He slips his hand into yours, and for a moment, you know what godlike power feels like. Those hands will grow large and strong, and they will do important, ordinary things with extraordinary faith and courage. That little buddy that follows you around the house like a puppy, making sound effects and begging for food at all hours, will influence nations and change the destiny of the world--all for the better.
Sometimes I worry about the future of this crazy planet with people intent on living below their potential, full of doubt and jealousy and rage.
But when I see my son, I can't help but feel an overwhelming peace and assurance that his small shoulders will carry great burdens with joy and strength. His circle of influence will widen and swell, and join with the other valiant sons of the earth. They will be a formidable army of greatness and good.
For now, nine is fine and he is mine. And I couldn't be happier or more grateful about it.
Happy Birthday, sweet son of my heart!
