|My Poet, 14 yrs old today|
You, my special boy, are 14 years old today.
How this happened? Anybody? Drop me a line, because I turned away for a second, and there it was.
You are the one I can write the most about and you are the one that leaves me with my pen poised in the air over my paper, unable to find the words that fit. You did this to me when you were just ten days old, when you reached for my face with your little hand, when you heard my voice. You left me astounded, speechless, then, and you still do now.
When you were almost 2 years old, you brought me a picture of a tiger you had drawn, complete with black stripes and green eyes, swishy tail with the hair tuft detailed at the end. I didn't even know you could hold a crayon yet. Your drawings still leave me shaking my head, in disbelief.
When you were almost 2 years old, you spelled your name out with the wooden alphabet train letters we had. Not a single letter was missed. I have the picture. I knew no one would believe me. People still don't.
When you were almost 2 years old, you scared my oldest sister by naming all the planets in the solar system, while you climbed on the swings at the park. She asked me that afternoon in the summer, "aren't you scared he can do all that?" She still doesn't get you, and I catch her watching you with curiousity.
You've never scared me.
You've always amazed me. A-mazed.
You are the least like the me I am now, and the most like the me I would have been, if people had let me.
Your needs are clear, direct, and never require guessing.
Your feelings are public, where mine have been tamed into society accepting quiet.
You know what you need. The way you have been able to organize all your passions, kept in order in your room, the need to rush upstairs for quiet after you return from a fully scheduled day, your dislike for being hurried. I see you, and I remember all these same feelings.
I understand it all. I did when you were small, and I still do now.
You are direct with your communication, there is no gray.
Which is why this picture, this picture, is one I can't tear my gaze away from today.
What is it that you really think? What do you see? Does something make you wonder?
For your birthday today, I've tried to complete the list you carefully and deliberately detailed for me, about the things you want.
Do you think you could, today, as a small token of affection for me, provide me with the same careful, deliberate details, about you?
Happy, wonderful, birthday, to my sweet, sweet poet Maximus.
I love you.
I hope you have an amazing birthday day, and receive everything you wished for.
Love, forever, mama
*I decided to call this post "Still Fits," since a poem I wrote for Maximus, when he was 4 yrs old, still fits him to this day.