I hear his little voice and and faint lisp, his constant questions or funny observations. I put my hand on his wispy blond hair and feel his sturdy little body hugging my knee. He loved food the second we handed him the spoon. He would cry like his world was coming to an end whenever I left him with any babysitter. His protective nature kicked in at the playroom when he'd sit on a chair next to his baby sister's car seat until I returned to take them home. It kicked in more recently when he was home alone with his youngest sister, he slept on the couch with the bat near by. His sense of right and wrong and uncompromising sense of truth is both exhausting and inspiring. He is my greatest joy and my greatest heartbreak.
He walks in the door and says my name in a deep man-size voice coming from somewhere above my head. I am always slightly shocked at the reality of my 21 year old son, home from college instead of pre-school. Everything about him has become big; his hands, his shoulders, his hopes and aspirations. He has experiences I don't know anything about unless he choses to share them. He has adult size opportunities and obstacles and a future full of endless possibilities. He is intelligent impressive and charming. I am grateful to call this man my son. And yet, I miss my little boy.