On May 22, the Oakdale Junior High eighth graders will don caps and gowns and accept a diploma signifying their successful graduation from one stage of their lives to the next in their onward journey to eventual adulthood - and my oldest son will be one of them.
Even as I write this, my throat closes with emotion as an odd burst of tears threaten to spill from my eyes and soak my laptop with salty moisture. I have no doubt that as my son takes the stage I will dissolve into a display of weeping that will embarrass us both but it's inevitable as he is my first son, the one I cut my teeth on as a young parent and the one that I share a unique relationship with apart from my other children.
Sebastian, named in part after a heavy metal rock god that I secretly lusted after with my immature, teenage heart, (and if you know the band he played with, you were no doubt a fan, as well!) was born when I was barely out of my teens. At the time I thought I was so mature, so wise, and so ready to have a baby. Now, as I look back, I realize why my mother sobbed when I told her I was pregnant.
I wasn't ready.
I don't think any woman-child is ready to be a mother at the tender age of 20 but as fate would have it, my husband and I plunged into the world of adulthood early and fast, stumbling and learning as we went, sometimes with disastrous results.
In fact, I think it's safe to say that for a while I felt more like a kid playing house than a wife and a mother. There were times I resented having to stay home while my friends went out and did things typical to young adults our age; there were times I wished I'd made different choices in my life. But even as I lamented the abrupt end of my own childhood, when I looked at my son with his beautiful, impossibly dark eyes, dimpled grin and sweet disposition, he was the one thing I couldn't regret.
Sebastian was a gorgeous baby. He was gentle and quiet; the perfect child for a couple who knew nothing about raising one and even less about being good parents.
Invariably, we made mistakes.
Even as I write this, my throat closes with emotion as an odd burst of tears threaten to spill from my eyes and soak my laptop with salty moisture. I have no doubt that as my son takes the stage I will dissolve into a display of weeping that will embarrass us both but it's inevitable as he is my first son, the one I cut my teeth on as a young parent and the one that I share a unique relationship with apart from my other children.
Sebastian, named in part after a heavy metal rock god that I secretly lusted after with my immature, teenage heart, (and if you know the band he played with, you were no doubt a fan, as well!) was born when I was barely out of my teens. At the time I thought I was so mature, so wise, and so ready to have a baby. Now, as I look back, I realize why my mother sobbed when I told her I was pregnant.
I wasn't ready.
I don't think any woman-child is ready to be a mother at the tender age of 20 but as fate would have it, my husband and I plunged into the world of adulthood early and fast, stumbling and learning as we went, sometimes with disastrous results.
In fact, I think it's safe to say that for a while I felt more like a kid playing house than a wife and a mother. There were times I resented having to stay home while my friends went out and did things typical to young adults our age; there were times I wished I'd made different choices in my life. But even as I lamented the abrupt end of my own childhood, when I looked at my son with his beautiful, impossibly dark eyes, dimpled grin and sweet disposition, he was the one thing I couldn't regret.
Sebastian was a gorgeous baby. He was gentle and quiet; the perfect child for a couple who knew nothing about raising one and even less about being good parents.
Invariably, we made mistakes.
