This is my oldest. He took this picture of himself. He’s quite the budding photographer. He is sitting next to me as I type this, asking, “Is that where you write the story? Write a story about me. How come you never write about me.”

The Boy does not understand that buried in the archives of this site are story after story all about him. When I first began this blog it was very much a blog about my children. This was a true mommy blog where nearly every post was about my kids or my roll as a mother. When I began this blog I was 9 months pregnant with my youngest child and desperate for sleep. My identity totally centered on motherhood—even if I wasn’t doing the best job at it. Perhaps more so because I felt so inadequate.

I wrote stories about The Boy when he was three years old, in his first months of preschool, describing his many obsessions with Simba, Aladdin, and Spiderman. There were pictures and videos. That first year or so of my blog no longer exists on the internet because I wiped out my old site at blogspot when I moved to my own domain. That was a mistake. But I have the posts saved to a hard drive in a document entitled “The story of us”.

He turns seven years old in ten days. He starts 1st grade in eight days. This year he will join the Cub Scouts following in his father’s and my father’s footsteps. He’s nosy, bossy, noisy, obnoxious, sensitive, smart, observant, and funny. He’s quite often my mirror, reflecting the best and worst of all my stengths and weaknesses. He is my baby and my firstborn, and he cradles my heart, my pride, and my worry.

No matter what people say, they can never prepare you for the emotional and psychological rawness of parenthood. Nor can anything prepare you for the way they fill your heart and soul.

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