Eighteen Years

Eighteen years.

That’s a very short time.

Eighteen years.

The exact amount of time, today at 4:04 p.m., that Steven has graced this earth.

I can still clearly picture in my mind the day that he was born. As Steven left the operating room crying and squirming in his dad’s arms, I lay there wondering how I could possibly take care of such a small and fragile creature.

And yet, he has grown into my eighteen year old son, just on the cusp of adulthood and ready to break free from these arms that still ache to protect him.

In my mind, he’s still a tousle-headed six year old, protecting the playground world from monsters and bad guys, swinging higher than the highest tree and running faster than the wind. I can still smell my tousle-headed six year old, coming in from a rambunctious day outside with the odor of wet-puppy dog clinging to him.

I miss that smell.

Somehow he has become a tousle-headed eighteen year old, still full of valor and conquering dreams. But now he smells old. He smells like a man.

When did that happen?

I miss my sweet and innocent Steven, celebrating a milestone of the sixteenth birthday. He was smart and interesting, kind and tolerant, shy, and sensitive, all at the same time.

He was undiagnosed.

But now he is a scarred and battered eighteen year old. He is still smart and interesting, kind and tolerant, shy and sensitive all at the same time. He is still sweet. But now he is no longer innocent.



Now he has also proven himself to be so very strong and courageous.
He is worthy of being eighteen.


November 10, 1988 4:04 p.m.
What a wonderful gift