First Born

It finally came. Joseph Patricks 18th birthday plopped on me like a lead balloon this morning when I opened my eyes. Yes, I have other things weighing my spirit down so I spent the morning examining the reasons why I couldn't get up until nearly noon. After all I've raised a beautiful, thoughtful intelligent man. I should be doing cartwheels...

I laid in my beagle filled bed and thought and cried and pulled out my memories stored in my mind where each image kept was individually wrapped in tissue paper that's soft from being used over and over again. They're old and delicate so I didn't rush...

I remembered his tiny body that fit on a pillow when I brought him home from the hospital, how laying next to him reminded me of flannel, of sleep and of warm milk. I remember his hugs that have never changed except for that they no longer are given by a little boy but a tall man. Still lingering still genuine still with the soul of my first born and the bond of my tiniest warrior that has seen the horrors of life's battles by my side.

Then amongst the crumpled up tissue paper it hit me that my tears weren't for the man he had become but the boy he had not been able to be. I have always called him my little man, I still do- even as he towers over me by a whole foot. Yet those words have been literal as he has had to step up to the plate for many years.

On this day I can tell him that I am happy that he is my child. He will always make me proud because his heart is true. Be free Joe, this life can be beautiful- today I give you that which I never thought I could do before.