Eleven and counting

My son turns eleven today. As I type I have ten boys running unrestrained and untethered in my house. I’d be lying if I said there was anything unusual about that. It’s more often than not a crazy house with my three boys.

It is a time for reflection. Eleven years. What the hell? I’ve never had anything for eleven years. Not a plant, a dog, even my husband, one could argue, punched out long before we got to eleven years. Of all things I might imagine myself to have for eleven years - a car for instance, maybe a refrigerator - I would never have imagined a human being. And my son seems happy to have me. Of course I gave him a PS3 which ensures (and insures) his devotion so I can’t be sure how sincere his undying affection is, but I really don’t care. I have it.

So tonight, I’ll listen to him and his friends scream like girls, echoing down the streets of the neighborhood. They are a great group of boys. I’m not concerned about a single one of them. We’re really fortunate. I have a beautiful boy who made me a grateful mom. If I can’t be there all the time, his trusted friends and their families will be. All things considered, it’s good to turn eleven.


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