Oh, sure, there’s a lot I could write about my birthday boy. That’s right, Big turned 7 — yes, 7! — on Saturday. That boy with his tender heart, boundless spirit, insightful observations, as well as strength of character and body is constantly inspiring (and challenging) me as a mom.
But for some reason this year, I’m feeling like this birthday is a milestone for me, too. I’m a seven-year-old mom. And as I’ve watched my baby grow, I’ve grown too.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I suddenly have all the answers and know exactly what I’m doing. And not for lack of trying. No, I’ve turned to every expert, doctor, friend, article, and stranger begging for the answers — desperate to do everything from introducing solids to buying basketball shoes perfectly.
But lately I’ve realized that I’ve spent far too long trusting other people. I’m finding that, more and more, I trust myself.
Over the past seven years, I’ve been slowly opening my gifts. The gift of creativity. The gift of patience. The gift of understanding. The gift of tender-hearted teaching. The gift of tough love. The gift of pushing, just a little bit harder. The gift of asking questions. The gift of finding the answers. The gift of standing firm. The gift of letting go…
Time has taught me so many things. Including the fact that I’ll never have all the answers. But now, seven years later, I know that’s ok. Because I have an unwavering love for these kids. Whether I’m cuddling with them on the couch or reprimanding them for jumping on it — I’m confident that they never question my devotion to them.
I honestly think that motherhood — whether it’s 2 minutes or 16 years into it — will always make me feel just as I did the day the doctor handed me Big in the hospital: Completely off balance, desperate to find my footing, but somehow totally grounded at the same time.
Perhaps the real gift time has given me is simply a better pair of sea legs. And that’s surely something to celebrate on this momentous Momiversary.