A friend of mine yesterday posted a picture of his adolescent son on Facebook. The love he has for his child is breathtaking, and it occurred to me that there are not huge amounts of men who could so unabashedly shine with their love for their sons. Daughters, yes. I see that kind of thing a lot. Mothers for their children of either gender? Certainly. But men for their sons? A bit more rare, I think.
I also got to thinking about my own kids. There are times when I look at them or see them at play or hear their voices and think, “Holy great googly-goo! How in the world did we manage to produce such beauty?” My kids are so incredibly beautiful within and without, and to have them grow and change before my eyes is a source of amazement to me.
I look at my own confusion and self-(I won’t say hatred here, but something on that side of the balance board… Perhaps disappointment?) and self-doubt, and then I observe how my eldest is kind to everyone, including my youngest, and I hear my youngest comforting one of the cats or talking about helping a friend, and I fairly burst with pride. I swell, and it is with great difficulty at I refrain from singing and squeezing the stuffing out of them.
Another thing that is simply amaze-balls is that they seem to love me, despite my mistakes. My eldest has not started down the teenage-disdain path yet, though I keep expecting her to do so. (Of course, it’s early yet.) My youngest, though we clash nearly hourly, still wants me to hug and cuddle as often as she pushes away.
How in the world can I begin to house such joy?