He lives very far away, up on the Canadian border. I don’t know his best friends, as I did when he was under my roof. I learn most of his achievements and activities by following his posts on Facebook. So how could I possibly feel close to my adult son?
It is by the compliments I hear from others. Watching him crowned the head of this committee or the leader of that effort. Seeing his children cared for, smart, and thriving. It’s by seeing the love in his wife’s eyes and his when they catch each other in a glance and smile. Even though we can’t often share dinner or take a ride, he is always in my heart.
A friend asked me the other day, “When you see your grown son, is there a tie to the little guy you taught to walk, and talk, and think? Or is there a disconnect from that long-ago path so that you only see the man today and not the child?”
Oh no, my friend, the man is never disconnected from the child the mother raised. You remember the ups and downs. You see a scar on his adult hand or knee and remember what put it there.
You remember how hard it was for him to learn certain things and those he mastered with hardly an effort. You swell with pride at the challenges he meets over the years and feel his hurt to the core when he is ill or in danger, or off the track.
He is that little toddler, that searching teen, and that wonderous man all rolled into one.
At least to his Mom.
P.S. I hope you have lots of photos of your grown son, back when he was a toddler and youngster and teenager. Treasure the photos you captured and have retained. They are precious.