Eldest turns 16 on Saturday. 16. Wow. 16.
Standing in the card aisle of Target, I am reading cards under the "Birthday for Him" area -- a notably much smaller area than the "Birthday for Her" one, donchaknow, which strikes me as not a surprise, really, but more an indictment that we, as women, while talking a good game of gender equality and the like, still place greater emphasis on someone -- anyone -- acknowledging our birthday with great fanfare while the men can, you know, give a rat's ass. Generally speaking and oversimplifying and stereotyping and all.
Wait. Where was I? Did I just do that Patty ramble known as a "pramble" -- trademark pending -- while getting all revved up to point to my crying in Target as proof that I really DO have a heart?
Shit. Did it again.
I started tearing up, reading those cards addressed to "Dear Son." The sentiment I could write myself. I am proud of him. I do adore him. I have been blessed by the fates that he is mine and alive and healthy and brilliant and funny and sensitive and all that.
And back in the recesses of my mind, vying for a chance to make an appearance, is a little boy who wore his heart on a sleeve -- and a superhero costume on the outside -- and who still speaks to me across the years.
Near about 16 years. Almost.
No further proof needed for me. No journey to Oz required. Pardon me for leaking so. Could someone hand me that oil can over there?
[I swiped the image from some website who didn't do the courage of acknowledging that it had swiped it from somewhere. So I'll return the disfavor.]