I do a lot of things wrong. I am not June Cleaver or Clare Huxtable.
But I must do something right too.
Today my oldest and I served at the church's annual pancake breakfast. He has been asking forever when it was coming and today when it was done he asked when the chili dinner was so he could serve again. I got several compliments from other adults about how enthusiastic he was. He has the heart of a volunteer and loves to do for others.
Tonight he and I sat on the hearth with him and we made s'mores in the fireplace. We compared notes on how to toast the perfect marshmallow. It was a perfect moment and a memory I hope he carries with him. I don't have too much more time to make memories like that with him. He is halfway to twenty. He is rapidly approaching the time where he won't snuggle with me in bed and beg me to read just one more chapter...where he won't come in all covered in snow, pink cheeked and ask for hot chocolate. When I have to let him go and hope that he forgets the times I made mistakes and remembers the time I helped him make memories. I hope that I have given him roots and when the time comes I am ready to give him wings and watch him fly.