25

On this day 25 years ago, my oldest son was born. This means I have been a mom for 49% of my life now.

I was worried about being a mother. I was afraid I would be bad at it, and it seemed like a pretty high-stakes thing to be bad at. One of the great gifts of motherhood is that it has compelled me to be less afraid of making mistakes. 

Back in the summer, a couple of weeks apart, two people close to me said things that I wanted to remember and also felt shy about recording here. But I am going to blog them anyway, before they slip into the mists of murky memory.

One of my best friends has spent a lot of time here with my kids and me, and she said something that took me by surprise. She said, "It is part of the culture of your family that your children adore you." She described a moment in June when one of my big kids was upset, and looked to me to put things in perspective. She said, "It's not that I'm envious -- but no, actually, I'm a little envious." 

My brother saw us in August for the first time in two years, and he said, "One of my favorite things about spending time with your family is how much you all obviously enjoy being together."

I did not know, 25 years ago, how many good things awaited me. I did not know how much love I would soak up, how much merriment we would enjoy together. I did not know that my inscrutable baby would become one of my favorite adults. Twenty-five years ago tonight he lay in the NICU, mechanically ventilated after a traumatic birth resulting in an initial APGAR of 1. When, in those early days, I thought about what the future might hold, I was pretty pessimistic.

I was so wrong. I'm so glad I was so wrong.