Dear young man ...

It was I who first fell in love with you. I fell in love with you before I even met you. I fell in love with you before I even knew you were what I needed at that exact moment. To this day and for all my days that follow, I will always be in love with you.

I remember my first glimpse of you. It was foggy, things were blurred and the room was chaos, but there you were ... As perfect as I ever imagined you'd be.

I could never forget how you left. Neither you nor I had a choice in the matter. I just knew I had to see you again quickly — no matter what it took.

When I saw you again, I could only weep.

But then I touched you, soft and tenderly, just a brush against your skin, but enough to renew my desire to love you until the end of time.

And, then one day, the clouds parted and God's glory rained upon us, and you were mine to hold for the rest of my life.

My life was changed; it was you who changed it.

For the better. For the worse. For the end of my days.

It's hard to believe it has been 16 years since you entered my life.

I can't count the hugs you've given me, or the hugs I've stolen. I couldn't begin to add up the number of times you've made me laugh, smile or even cry. And you'll never know just how many times I've watched you sleep, or stared at you from a distance, knowing it was you who made me who I am.

With your 16th birthday approaching ever so quickly, I can only tell you my heart bursts with joy, pride and love whenever I think of you.

Oh, I worry. And then I pray. About you. For you.

But you've also brought me so much peace.

That's because I know you're a young man who loves his Lord and Savior. I know you're a man of character, trustworthy and true. You work hard, love with loyalty and tease with the spirit of a child.

Your story is only beginning. We are merely a few chapters in, and there's so much more left for you to write. Not me. You. I only wrote the prelude. The rest is up to you.

I know those chapters will be filled with mistakes. The paper will be crumpled, and the pen will run out of ink. But our God will be there, even when I'm not, to make sure the chapters are filled with love and the story will be one worth telling.

Oh, I know my gushiness will turn your cheeks pink. You'll roll your eyes and probably think I've lost my mind. It's OK. I understand. My parents were dorks, too.

Just know it was you who helped shape me into the woman I am today. You allowed me countless trials and errors. But more than anything you taught me how to love children, and I truly believe God's plans for me have always been to love His children.

In Ecclesiastes 3:1, it says: "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens."

In just a few short years, I will have to release you to the world. I won't be able to catch you when you jump out of the nest. I can only pray that you'll fly.

Your potential is infinite as long as you always believe in yourself and trust in the Lord.

As the next few years pass too quickly, you'll just have to pardon me if I love a little stronger. And if you catch me staring, just know I'm merely preserving memories.

I could've never imagined 16 years ago as I cried next to that NICU incubator that the days that followed would pass this quickly. I never pictured that 5-pound baby towering over me, picking me up off the ground or driving out of the driveway on his own.

But here you stand.

A young man.

And I couldn't be prouder of who you've become.

August 14, 1999, changed my life. It made me a mother, and I thank you for that.

I love you.

Sincerely,

Your Biggest Fan

Seeing beyond the teen and finding love

If I were forced to categorize myself, I’d say I’m a Little Kid Person. Teenagers have always kind of confused me, even though I seem to relate to them rather well. I’ve just found myself more adept at handling the wee ones, opting for a tenacious toddler over a smart-aleck teenager any day of the week.

But as I adjust to being the mother of a teenager, I am beginning to think my previous view of teenagers is based merely on what I’ve been used to up until this point. I’ve only been the mother of a teenager for about three months, so I’d say my skewed image isn’t a reality, but more in line with the “I just don’t know any better” realm.

So lately, I’ve been keeping an open mind, opting not to just chalk those years up to a lost, stinky cause that we’ll have to trudge through until we reach the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, I’ve been sitting back, listening and enjoying the newfound world that’s slowly encompassing a portion of my life.

First, I enjoy the independence my teenager possesses. He’s no longer afraid to stay home alone, and actually prefers to stay at the house and watch TV. Let’s just say loading three wiggling children into my SUV only to run to town to drop one off at basketball or football practice is enough of a task without having the oldest one thrown in the mix to instigate.

Speaking of instigating, teenagers are smart enough to do that. Experience has taught them precisely what button to push when in order to instantly send the remaining siblings into a screaming tailspin that leaves parents breathless and begging for mercy. Why? Oh, just because they’re bored.

Well, that is, if we see him. Suddenly the door to his bedroom started closing. It seemed instant. One day, he welcomed visitors to view his world, and the next day, we were barred from entrance. He doesn’t have a lock on his door, so I enter whenever I darn well please, but still, I’ve had to grow used to seeing a paneled barrier where once I would see a little boy sitting among a pile of Lincoln Logs.

And although I do seem to be adjusting to most changes, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to The Glare. You know the look we get when we make them do something they really don’t want to do. Silence almost always accompanies The Glare. The eyelids turn into little slits while fire spews from the millimeter left open. He’s still a boy though so The Glare is usually short-lived.

But the most amazing part of having a teenager has been seeing glimpses of maturity peek through the ashes of childhood.

He understands situations that I’m still unaccustomed to discussing with him, so it surprises me. He sees truth, the way most children unabashedly do, but he understands the truth now. In one recent conversation, I told him of an upcoming happening. He smiled at the excitement of it, but after a few seconds of thought, he saw through the disguise and realized the root of the situation. And without hesitation, he expressed his disdain toward the injustice. I just smiled at him and said, “We don’t have to like what they do, but we’re called to love them. Just remember that.” He nodded with understanding, and we moved on to another conversation.

And the conversations are grand. He pulls me aside now to discuss situations in adult language. And even asked his youth minister about some pretty deep faith-based questions, which shows he not only trusts the adults in his family, but he is being resourceful and candid to others who’ve earned his trust.

It’s a new world for me. And I rather like it. Sure, it’s different, but underneath the surface, there’s still a little boy who captured my heart the instant I met him all those years ago. And that sort of love never changes — it just grows deeper.

Parenting manual needs camp chapter

When the first-ever, all-inclusive parenting manual is published, it should include a chapter offering advice for parents sending their sons to summer camp.

I’m even volunteering to write it.

Chapter 99: Church camp.

Men, listen up. This advice will help you not only through sending your son to church camp, but to realize exactly what little boys are all about. Oh, you were a little boy once? Well, then, hug your mother and tell her she’s the most fantastic individual on earth.
 
Walking into the dorm to pick up my second son’s belongings after his first stay at church camp, I immediately noticed the blue towel sopping wet and soaking my quilt was not one of ours.

Lesson No. 1: Mothers know their towels. Even if we have 50, one in every color, we still know which ones are ours. I sent an old steel blue towel, not periwinkle. I don’t own a periwinkle towel. (Yes, periwinkle is a color — one word that men will never use. Ever.) With two fingers, I picked it up with disgust and moved it off the quilt. That’s when a man, a few years older than myself, said, “You here to get Lucas’ stuff?”

I nodded, and he replied, “Well, there’s a bunch of stuff in the shower room. You might want to go in there and see if anything belongs to him.”

With great trepidation, I walked into the shower room with my 6-year-old who had to use the rest room. He walked toward the stalls, while the man — obviously a camp volunteer — followed me into the shower area. There, to my dismay, was a pile of wet, nasty clothing — inside-out socks, swimming trunks, beach towels and underwear.

My gasp must have been audible, or the man sensed my anguish. “Worst group we’ve ever had as far as clothes. They just dropped them wherever they took them off.”

I thought, “Little boys dropping their clothes wherever they landed, then taking off and forgetting about them? Who would’ve thought.”

Looking through the mess, trying not to touch, I realized quickly the towel I sent was not among the debris. It’s why I send an old towel, old washcloth and cheap clothes. I learned long ago those things rarely make it home from camp.

Nearly running from the shower room to escape the clothing massacre, I happened upon my 6-year-old who was zipping his pants.

That’s when the man said, “This group was bad about clothes, but at least they seemed to know how to flush.” He then walked over and flushed after my 6-year-old.

Whoops. Another lesson: Not only do little boys leave clothing strewn about, they find it hard to flush, aim or put the seat up.

Apparently this, too, was news to the counselor. (He obviously raised girls and hasn’t spoken to his mom about his own long-abandoned habits.)

Later, after arriving home, my son’s bag was dropped in front of the washing machine. Emptying it directly into the washer, I noted several pairs of the underwear I sent were still folded as I placed them. Yep. This is a church camp lesson, too: Changing undies is optional when mom’s not looking.
And the bar of soap I issued was unopened, as was the bottle of shampoo.

“Did you take a shower while you were at camp?” I asked my little guy.

“They wouldn’t let me,” he replied.

Lying after church camp? Nope. Not hardly. The translation that can only be interpreted by mom: “I asked to take a shower 30 seconds before dinner, or in the middle of our Bible lesson.” Every chapter in the manual should end with, “Whatever they say shall not be taken literally.”

And whether or not little boys ever shed that quality can be argued later in life with their wives, long after we moms give up. Soap will go unopened, and undies may not get changed. The washing machine may revolt, and we’ll lose a few towels along the way. But in the end, we just shrug, laugh and know boys will be boys — especially at church camp.

One smart cookie

My children all developed in the same womb, and as much as they are alike in many ways, their differences are numerous.

Take school, for example.

Jacob is my floater. Smart as a whip, his mind works in wondrous ways. You can almost see the gears turning, yet he floats ... Sometimes I wonder if he would register if we tested his blood pressure. He's not much of a go-getter and effort isn't his strong suit. If he put 100 percent into school, it's amazing what he could do. Instead, he puts in 10 percent -- on a good day, he might hit 20. It's been a frustrating experience, as we try to get him interested in education. He needs organization, responsibility and a little more drive. They're qualities he must attain by himself; we can only push him in the right direction. We're still trying ...

Lucas is an amazing little person to watch. He faced developmental and speech barriers that made the past five years more than difficult. We fought for him and pushed. We didn't need to. He's a fighter, a pusher and a go-getter. He doesn't like school. He'd rather just play. But Lucas does everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, at 110 percent. So, he figures if he has to go to school, then he'll put in his best effort. That means a kid who was near failing and almost held back in first grade is now cranking out an A+ in spelling, A- in math, B in reading and C in language arts. Don't believe me? Try giving him a spelling test. If he gets one wrong, he wants to go back through the entire list all over again until he gets every single one correct. I need a fraction of his drive ...

And then there's Alex. I sent Alex to school a year earlier than I normally would've. He was a fresh and eager 5-year-old. Wasn't sure if he was ready. He didn't score very high on his kindergarten test, and I was worried. Why I worry so much, I'll never know. He's taken to school like a duck to water. He loves to read. He loves to learn. He spells words in his spare time for crying outloud. And just last night, he wrote his first sentence using his sight words. Sitting at the kitchen table, he wrote, "We go to my mom's," on a teeny, tiny sheet of notebook paper. Sure the words were stacked on top of each other like blocks, but he did it all by himself. And I just beamed ...

Now, I wonder what Emery has in store for us ...

Each came from the same place. They had the same start, similar experiences and caring parents. Yet, each is amazingly different. And I'm blessed that I get to watch, document and actively participate in their lives. Thank you, God.

Little blockhead?

For a birthday, Nana Deb brought over a very cool set of blocks. All shapes and sizes, they were perfect for building. A mother herself, she put those blocks in a carrying container to keep them neat and put away.

It was a nice thought.

Baby boy has found those blocks, and loves them to pieces. We build very tall towers. We build small towers that Baby Jaguar, with Baby Boy's help, kindly kicks over. They are always scattered all over the house. Baby Boy loves the blocks. Such a simple toy, yet they bring so much joy.

Takes me back 25 or more years ago. The only toy in my grandmother's tiny bungalow in northern New York were a set of Sesame Street blocks in a cardboard cylinder that had seen its better days. We played with those blocks for hours on end; all of us grandchildren. Didn't have much choice.

Baby Boy has many more toys. He has a choice, but chooses the blocks. And, yes, we pick up those blocks a dozen times a day. We dig them out from beneath the couch, table and wherever else they fall when the tower is crumbled. We count the blocks, and we identify the colors.

Baby Boy always asks, "You play blocks with me, Mommy?"

And Mommy always takes the time to play. She remembers those Sesame Street blocks with pride, and wants to pass along the memories.