This picture was taken on October 2, 1994; two days after my son was born. Fourteen years ago. Five-thousand, one-hundred, and ten days ago. A ridiculous amount of minutes ago.
So...why does it feel like last week sometime?
I can clearly remember that afternoon. I'd just given my newborn son his very first bath, so he smelled delectable; all lotioned and powdered and oiled. As most kids do, his bath relaxed him, and he was soon drifting off to sleep, draped across my shoulder. I just LOVED the feel of his tiny little body in my arms, and I was hard-pressed to put him down. After almost two stress-filled, apprehensive years of trying to conceive him, and a lifetime of dreaming about him, I had a hard time ever letting him go.
I loved everything about him. His porcelain skin, his insanely tiny, paper-thin fingernails, with the little pink buds of newborn skin underneath, the mass of jet-black hair that not only covered his entire head, but swirled around his body in soft little tufts. I loved the way his bottom lip virtually disappeared when he slept. And, mostly, I loved holding him, nurturing him, making him feel safe.
It's incredibly hard for me to fathom that that little bean; that adorable little bug resting so soundly on my shoulder, is 14 years old today. He's grown almost man-like, with his facial hair, and his deepening voice, and his height that now towers over mine. But, if I look somewhere in the deep recesses, I can still see remnants of that little boy, that I wrapped up and brought to our home; the little guy my husband snapped the picture of on an October afternoon, all those years ago. He's still there when he's sad, he's still there when he doesn't feel well, he's still there when something's bothering him. How do I know? Because he still turns to me to nurture him, and to make him feel safe.
And I wouldn't want it any other way.
Happy 14th birthday, son.