My son is not only another baby. He is not only a part of me and my husband but a cornucopia of generations past. He is a part of my parents that are creeping toward their 60s. This saddens me…. 60s! Already!
He is my beloved grandfather who passed in 1997 from cancer. He reminds me of fishing trips, flannel button downs and cigarettes. He is my grandmother who raised me in her floral dresses and curly permed hair. He is my deceased paternal grandparents whom I never had the chance to meet in Korea. I see bits and pieces of everyone in him; nostalgia stabs me in the heart and I ponder at the beauty and pain of it all. He is a celebration of life, love and hope – a gift that God besotted upon me with His graciousness.
I still can’t believe he is here. My son. This is probably how my parents have always felt about me. I feel ashamed and embarrassed for having so much angst against them as I was growing up. Darn these raw realizations. Being an adult sucks. 🙂