Baby Mine

The other night, I wandered down to my twelve-year-old son's room at bedtime.

He was settling into bed, and I lay down next to him for a few minutes. We chatted for a few minutes, my mother's heart full of quiet joy at the sweet moment with my son. My mind wandered to the days when he was a newborn, just over seven pounds. In those day, when he lay on the bed next to me, he curled into a tiny little peanut, burrowed tightly up against me. But now his long, lanky form takes up almost as much space on the bed as I do.

I thought about these things with a sigh, and I reached over and brushed my fingers across his hair.

And then he tooted.

I mean, tooted. The kind of mattress-rattling honk that almost lifted the covers a little.

And we laughed together until our sides hurt.

I loved that little baby, but oh, how I love the young man