Here is my Owen, circa 2009.
My second grade report card: "Nancy is very smart, but she rushes through her work and doesn't always take her time."
Owen's parent-teacher conference: "Owen is a smart boy, but he rushes so he can get back to playing blocks. He doesn't take his time."
1988: My racing suit clung to my skin as I slumped in the backseat. I crushed the red ribbon into a ball. Third place. My best butterfly stroke had not been enough. My dad glanced at me through the rear-view mirror, a thin smile spreading across his face. He liked that I was angry. I would use it the next time I stepped on the starting block.
2010: Owen hunched in his booster seat, his face flushed from playing T-ball. He mumbled to himself, "I didn't get the game ball. Next time I will try harder." I smiled. I recognized that hunger.
We are alike.
We love people and books and attention.
We dip in our toes instead of doing cannonballs.
We notice when people need love.
We chat up the baristas at Starbucks.
And yet...he is not me.
He takes direction and advice.
He is spatially gifted.
Today, he is five years old. He's a geode. Each day, I view more of his precious, secret light. I discover more of what's inside.
Every glimpse takes my breath away.