I was raised around women. Only child with a single mom.
I was always around women, so when I had my son I was downright fascinated. Sure I’d been around men, I met his father and started building a life with really the only man on the planet that would put up with me, but to have my very own son. To participate in growing a man, shaping his future. I felt incredibly under qualified and I’m a person who likes to know what the hell I’m doing.
Completely out of my element, I took a deep breath and I just started loving him. It was so easy. I know everyone says this, but my son is extraordinary. Aside from being gorgeous, he’s kind, fiercely loyal, a protector, a sweet, sweet boy. He still eats like someone is going to steal his food and the little salesman/comedian in him can drive me absolutely crazy, but I love this child to the core of my being.
Every day he grows there’s more to learn and every day he becomes more of a man. I often defer to Michael when I can’t quite figure Cotter out, but no matter what the situation, it seems that listening and love are the keys to raising brilliant men.
Sure you have to have an outlet for their never ending energy and they pee on the toilet seat for a really long time. Boys are more physical and Cotter at least was, and continues to be, a great tester. He very rarely takes someone’s word for it. He needs to find out for himself. But boys are not that different, they’re not less emotional or in need of toughing up, as I thought.
I didn’t give myself much time to wonder how I was ever going to raise a son with so little experience. It turns out I was perfectly qualified to raise my son from the day he was born.
I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine.
I promised to love him, teach him, make him laugh and keep him safe.
He promised to challenge me, help me to find new ways to look at things, make me laugh harder than I ever thought possible and love me.
We seem to be doing just fine so far.
That’s all from the laundry room. Put your dirty socks in the hamper!
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