I remember when you were born. As I looked at you closely for the first time, feeding eagerly at my breast and having no way of knowing the struggles ahead, I questioned my ability to guide you. The knowledge and structure I knew I must give to you would not come like the milk, which so voluntarily and miraculously came into my body to nourish you. How fine it would be to feed into you wisdom and compassion as easily as I was feeding into you milk.
The dreams and goals I had for you those many years ago have not really changed so very much: to find fulfillment in work and joy in play; to discover the fine line between independence and the need of a shoulder to lean on; to be aware of the rights of all people; to be gentle and full of humor. Some of those dreams are already coming true.

But who could have told me then of the things I would learn from you.
You offered me a chance to develop patience when I discovered you finger painting on the wall with the contents of a dirty diaper; when you cut off the dog's whiskers because, "Mom, she looked too much like a cat;" and when learning to read, you could never recognize the word "that" in your reading lesson (why couldn't the word have been something hard like "friendly" or "neighbor?"). I learned that spankings were usually a result of my own impatience and frayed nerves. I found other ways to guide, and I learned that preventive measures saved so many tears and worries.

You developed my communication skills and sense of reasoning when you asked, "Do people ever cry after they die and are put in the ground?" or "Do blind people know what red is like?" Sometimes answering your simple questions solidified my own insights. How glad I am that I took the time to look and think beyond the superficial simplicity of your questions - profound and touching on life itself is what they were.

I still remember how nervous I was when I hauled out the biology book to give you the facts of life. No, it wasn't nervousness related to embarrassment. It was just that I wanted so much to do it right, so that you would know about love - and responsibility - and the wrongness of a double standard - all this in addition to the necessary physical facts.

The book fell open and displayed a woman's breasts, and I explained that I had nursed both you and your brother in this way. You, in great seriousness, wanted to know which one was his and which one was yours - like his blue cup and your yellow one. A great question with a need for a great answer: "You used both and so did he." What a look of disgust crossed your face: "I thought you were suppose to be sanitary with babies."

You gave me the chance to mature by accepting responsibility, for you were probably the greatest responsibility I have ever have. Producing an emotionally, mentally and physically well child is a complex operation because so much of it simply cannot be delegated. The decisions were mine for better or worse, and some days there were so many decisions to make.

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