Eight

Every year, writing a birthday post gets harder. Explosion of feelings that my children ignite inside my chest, every minute, every hour, cannot be explained in one post.

I am definitely one lucky mother, of two of the greatest kids ever.

And my firstborn, my son, is turning 8 today. I am in total disbelief that I am a mother of an 8-year old. I still feel like a 20 something, growing up with my children, trying to find my way around.

Everyday, I watch him in amazement, his need to keep active and affinity to play any kind of sports; his competitive nature and drive to be the best and the most; his memory which has the capacity to store anything from the toy I didn’t get him 4 years ago, to the distance between the planets and their moons, but to bring his homework notebook from school.

My heart bursts in delight when he and his sister are best buddies and it wrenches when he wants to keep away from her.

I struggle to find the right words to console him when he is disappointed. I feel incompetent, every time I choose to lecture him and see him rolling his eyes. I feel inadequate; with all the things we could do together but cannot for a reason or another. I should do better for him, he deserves better.

I fill with pride when I look at him, as if I have something to do with it. I try to remind myself, that he is his own person. If I happen to forget, he reminds me of it.

Time flies and one day he will be able to calculate how fast it actually does. Time flies and I want to grab every ounce of my feelings for him whether joy or frustration or pride or confusion and carve them in my mind and heart before they fly away as well.

And no matter how big he grows, I will hug him and press him on my chest, so that he can hear the explosion of feelings that he ignites inside my chest.