Graham’s birthday

Yesterday was Graham’s 7th birthday. My baby. Except he is very clearly not a baby anymore.

Lately, all three of my kids feel sooooo biig.

I don’t know if it’s perspective, if cancer has made me look at them differently, or if they all simultaneously hit some sort of developmental growth spurt while I wasn’t paying attention. But suddenly they seem so much more mature. So much more distinctly themselves. Sometimes I look at them and it genuinely takes me aback.

Graham is larger than life and absolutely hilarious. He also has a bronzed six-pack that I am fairly certain he will carry with him into adulthood despite having done absolutely nothing in particular to earn it. He is funny without trying to be funny, athletic, and has an energy that fills whatever room he walks into.

And somehow he is SEVEN.

Keeler has developed this quiet, cool confidence that I find completely enviable. He is unapologetically himself. He likes what he likes. He does his own thing. He doesn’t seem particularly concerned with whether anyone else thinks it’s cool, and, my God, I am fricken here for it. I love watching his personality come into its own.

And Etta.

Etta is this quirky little spitfire of a spirit who I am pretty sure will one day become my bestest bestie, although we are definitely going to have to survive the teenage years first. She is empathetic and incredible with animals and delightfully weird in a way that makes adults absolutely crack up. There is nobody quite like her.

Tonight I watched the three of them together, and I just felt so damn proud.

Proud of them, obviously. But proud of myself, too.

You see, I’m not super maternal.

Motherhood has probably been the biggest struggle of my life. Not because I don’t fiercely love my children. I do. But parenting was never really natural to me. I’m not overly nurturing. Actually, who are we kidding? I’m not really nurturing at all.

I’m impatient. I like independence. I like my career. I’m an Aquarius, I need space. And raising tiny humans who require you constantly, loudly and usually all at the exact same time has never exactly played to my strengths.

Parenting is fucking hard. But tonight I looked at these three little people I have raised. They are funny. They are confident. They are empathetic. They are independent. They are weird. They are kind. They are completely and unapologetically themselves.

And I really, really like them.

Not just because they're my children. I like the people they are becoming.

And standing there tonight, beaming at the three of them, I had this weird thought:

Maybe I’m not as bad as I thought I was at this parenting thing.

Maybe being a good mother was never about becoming the kind of mother I thought I was supposed to be. Maybe it was about raising three kids who feel safe enough to become completely themselves. And I did that right.

Happy 7th birthday, baby Graham.

You will always be my baby. Even with the six-pack. ❤️