The last birthday my son got to share with his father was his 11th. The pictures are amazing. I was, as usual, the picture taker, and caught an amazing picture of Andrew and Mark hugging over the shiny new bike.
There have been 4 birthdays since then. His 12th was spent in a hospital room with his dad.
His 13th, 14th and now 15th…? As a fatherless child.
I’ve tried to make birthdays something special.
I’ve tried to live and love and parent as if Mark were still here.
I don’t know if I’ve succeeded.
I don’t know if Mark would have approved of the double bladed sword-type thing I gave Andrew for his 15th. (Honestly I’m not sure if *I* approve LMFAO)
But I’m doing my best.
3 birthdays without his dad. 3 birthdays where he’s had to grow up, learn to be a man, figure out what adult men are supposed to be like and for the most part, aside from a year with my ex, he’s had a woman to try to teach him.
I wanted different for my boys. I don’t know how to raise boys. Hell – when my oldest was going through puberty (and there WAS a male figure there) I got a book on puberty to try to understand what the hell was going on with his body.
Boys are icky and weird and I’m supposed to be the mother of girls.
But I wouldn’t trade my son’s for anything.
Somehow, despite me, they are growing into amazing young men. Not a lot of initiative (yet) but responsible when given a list. Caring, loving, kind.
And my baby… my husband’s first (biological) born… is now 15. And he’s turning into an incredible young man.
I wish Mark were here to see it.
(double bladed sword thingy – untwist the handle and it’s got a chain between it – bladed nunchucks?)