18 years ago today I had my first son.
At 5'2", 98# pierced and tattooed, listening to Dead Kennedys, Jeff Buckley, Radiohead, Operation Ivy, Digable Planets and The Pharcyde on mixed tape, smoking Camel Wides and sipping grampa's (absconded) Pabst Blue Ribbon while trying to tan, I never planned to have kids except "maybe when I'm old like in my 30's."
When I found out he was coming, I knew I would be his fiercest warrior. Terrified and clueless, I dedicated myself (ferociously and imperfectly) to providing the best life I could.
I finished the last of High School in 3 months and graduated early with some awards and published writing in the school paper. I worked 2 jobs 5 days a week: 7am - 12pm in my dad's machine shop, 1pm - 6pm in another machine shop across the street, through pregnancy. At the time of delivery, I was168 lbs. and on the verge of a stroke. Swollen with preeclampsia, lights out and quiet voices in the hospital room to keep my blood pressure at bay, I met my new life.
Then we grew up together. College, work, single mom life, married life, many wild adventures, all the rest.
Now he's an adult and very much his own person. Despite my best efforts and anxieties, I couldn't mold or shape him, and so learned mostly step back so he could step forward.
And now I get to meet him as a man.
