Sometimes I wish with great ferocity that he did, and other times I'm so relieved he doesn't I can barely keep from weeping. But either way, the fact remains.
I knew it early on, maybe even from the moment they placed his slick, pink body on mine, that although he is my son, he is a soul apart from me with his own gifts and purpose.
I am writing this down now in case there is a time I forget it, when I try to steer him toward something that is my challenge and not his, for when I am hunched over from trying to carry his pain. Even when I want it to be different, maintaining this clarity is helpful, dare I say, calming.