As a teenager, Denver refuses to get his picture taken…So this post is a nearly identical repeat of last year and chock full of embarrassing baby photos in hopes he’ll let me get some NEW pictures to use. Happy birthday, brat. 😉
Time sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a snail; but man is happiest when he does not even notice whether it passes swiftly or slowly.
~Ivan Turgeney

Fifteen years ago this minute, as I was in labor, I still thought he was a girl. The ultrasound said girl. Everyone said girl.

My dreams said boy.

Mymorning walk to induce labor I stopped not at the girls clothes rack, but at the tiny little suits, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the teensy little ties.

After three false labors I was forced to sit in the hotel room my Mom had reserved until I “Finally” stopped screwing around and gave birth already. (For the record, Denver was only 1.5 hours “early” for his due date.) When my contractions were finally 3 minutes apart, my mom called my OB, who then demanded to know why we waited. She, in her dry and sarcastic glory informed him that she wasn’t about to take me in if I wasn’t going to actually have the baby.

And so Denver made me a parent. With his perfectly round head and surprise appendage that made him decidedly NOT a girl, & made me wonder how in hell I was going to raise a boy.

But he was perfect.

The gorgeous blue of his eyes made me fall in love in an instant.

Everything on time. Every milestone reached at JUST the right moment. Every clothing size changing right at it’s declared time (0-3 months? Gone at three months. 3-6? Gone at six…it was eerie).

He was happy. Smart. Playful. Loving.

He was my world.

He was my mom and dad’s world.

The first born grandchild. The first born great-grandchild.

The star.

Our family grew. It changed.

Not always in the best, most fair ways for him. In truth, sometimes he was forgotten, because he was so ‘perfect’. So easy in comparison. (I hate myself for it, but it is true).

It never made him less loved.

In many ways, being the parent of a teen is infinitely harder than raising the young ones. He isn’t satisfied with easy answers. He sees the world around him in such a different light. He sees things that a younger child wouldn’t. He understands and absorbs everything. Things that I sometimes haven’t the slightest idea how to explain to him, to clarify.

Right now he is struggling, battling against an internal battle I can’t resolve for him. Fighting against the common, and always unique and personal pain of being a teenager.

But in his heart – he is a good kid. He is smart. He is still loving.

He is annoyed with his parents. Embarrassed that his mother has a tattoo and plans more. He hates failure. He strives to do his best and no one is harder on him when he fails than himself. Interested in photography. Science. Math. Writing. Cross Country.

He dreams big dreams. Of being a doctor at Riley so he can help other kids like him.

He achieves big things. Advancements in Boy Scouts, Junior Honor Society.

He struggles to fit in.

He is 15.

In so many ways.

He is my baby.

In so many ways – he always will be.

Happy birthday to my oldest, my first born.

15 is a big number. But you’re just getting started.

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