This post has nothing to do with looking up, it has more to do with looking back.
Twenty years ago today, I went for my six month prenatal check up- (in those olden days we counted months rather than weeks)- and by the end of the day, my Oldest had entered the world. Surprise!
We didn't get to take him home for six weeks, which wasn't bad, considering he'd been ten weeks early, and when we finally did get to take him home he only weighed four pounds. His infancy was rather an exercise in terror, with such a tiny and fragile boy, and I have to say the girls were a breeze, comparatively speaking. I tell the story of my son, who was born at two pounds and fourteen ounces, to anyone with a preterm infant, as encouragement, because he's a robust and healthy young man now, strong and tall.
In my heart, though, sometimes I still see him as the tiny little guy who needed me so much. He doesn't live with me now, hasn't really needed me for years, and I miss him. I always thought I'd be the last mom on earth to suffer from the empty nest, I thought I had a firm grasp on the concept of raising independent people who will leave and live their own lives, but I must admit, I miss him every day.
It's a strange fact, isn't it, that the older you get, the shorter time seems? For a child, a day can seem like forever. For a teenager, a six month relationship is long term. But for a mom, twenty years pass in the blink of an eye, and suddenly this guy:
is this guy:
Happy birthday, Oldest! Call your Mom.