For as long as I can remember, I have loved my birthday. Seriously, I count down the days starting at least 6 weeks out. Now, that I am a mom, I find I love their birthdays pretty much as much as I love my own. And I try my best to make their day as special as I can.
This week my son turned 11. I already wrote about his party earlier, but I just can’t stop reflecting on it.
11 feels big to me. I know 10 years from now when he’s 21 and having his first beer with us on the back patio, I’ll look back at today and say, “11, gosh he was just a baby then.” 
But, the mere fact he is only 10 years away from drinking a beer, is an indication of just how old he is. Sheesh!
I remember holding him that first night in the hospital. My heart a big muddle of mush. He slept all evening as we had proudly showed him off to all our friends and family, and then when we were ready to sleep ourselves, he was wide awake. I remember holding him and swaying him and trying to imagine him older. What would he be like? Here was this little person in my arms. With a whole future ahead of him. My heart swelled with joy.
Some days I look at him and marvel at how much he has grown. How much I trust him with. He is capable and mature in so many ways. And then other times, I look at him and realize, he is still just a boy. Full of imagination and gross jokes and a ever changing range of emotions. And now I know his personality. I know him. And he is slowly, but surely growing into himself. Which I guess it what these “tween” and quickly approaching “teen” years are all about. Figuring out who you are and growing into the person God created you to be. And of course something as big and monumental as that will have more than a few emotions packed with it and bumps in the road.
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