The other night, I wandered up to my ten-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 six 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, snorting and tossing each other a high five.
I loved that little baby, but oh, how I love the young man.