Originally published May, 2001

It is officially Summer at Magnolia Manse.  I know it is May, and the Season begins in June, but my children are out of school for two months and three weeks and that makes it summer.

This week I traveled to Chattanooga with my eleven year son, Matthew, on his class trip.  We wandered the aquarium examining the fishes, telling each other everything we knew about every fish we saw.

This child is mine

This child of mine who I love so much it makes me ache, bounces up occasionally to kiss me, “I lazhu” he says, without embarrassment in our own ‘I love you’ language.

This child whose hair I would not cut until he was five because I loved the curls, and then cried over his falling locks while his father took pictures.

This child who can shinny up a rope effortlessly, fly on a skateboard and make the most profound remarks, is mine.

When he was 2 and his brother 4, I was convinced I’d birthed aliens. They are such boys. I didn’t realize how soft and dainty I’d had things until they disrupted my world and brought me their magic.

Their father was a young, street smart tough guy from Boston who hid his tenderness well, protected it from examination because he couldn’t stand to reveal it.