like sycamores

Can mothering be an art if you never actually produce anything you can call your own?

My Oldest is getting ready to graduate from high school. When I look at him, I see a wonderful, flawed, unfinished and perfect seventeen-year-old.  And this thing is, I don’t really know how much of him is because of – or in spite of – me.

Maybe they just green up in their own time, no matter what. Img_2627

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