With lights high above the field, I watched him pull fly balls out of the air, like he was stealing secrets in the dark. He darted, and shifted, and lunged, and caught. His skinny legs in his baseball pants. So much my child. Those long lanky skinny legs. Standing still they look just the like the number 11 - two long parallel lines in the sands. His legs:my legs. He's a Munroe after all.
And he's just like me with that hint of over-assuredness, yet his is measured by a gentleness I never quite mastered. And he's just like me with that cocky swagger, yet his is softened by an occasional retreat into anonymity - a path I never traveled. And he's just like me with his hungry mind, yet his is satiated by sleep - a remedy to which mine has always been immune.
I have made mistakes in motherhood. Many. But I have not failed. And I know that much is true. For as my son climbs into the car, he talks to me, and he says words that I say to him when he is feeling sad. He encourages me in the same way that I encourage him when he needs hope. It's like an echo. I can only hear myself but I'm not speaking. And I check the rear view mirror and all I see is a witness to every brilliant moment of motherhood I never knew I had.
And he's just like me, because he wants to be better - and he's not afraid to try. (He also loves the Beastie Boys. #Word)
Happy (almost) birthday to my boy. Let's "turn it up to eleven" this year.
