(Image courtesy of Shutterstock, via PJ Media)
It was 6:30 a.m. and I was standing around with the other runners, waiting for our half marathon to begin. I was still sleepy, hoping that my adrenaline rush would kick in before I began my race. I got stuck in a stare, when a teenage boy walked by me. He crossed my line of vision and snapped me out of my daze. He was maybe fifteen years old and I could tell that he was also about to run the race from the numbered bib that was pinned to his shirt. He was taller than I am, and was thin and fit. He had short-cropped hair that was the same color as my two-year-old’s. In fact, looking at him was like looking at my two-year-old through some bizarre time machine glasses. He had the same soft features, with kind-looking almond eyes, and delicate, fair skin.
In that moment just after dawn, over two years since I had my first son (and five months after giving birth to my second), I envisioned what my two little boys might one day be like. Sure, I have imagined them as adults, and my husband and I have discussed what they might one day be like. But it never seemed real to me – it was always more of an idea than anything. We have been so stuck in the trenches with two small children that it has been incredibly difficult to see past the fog. We’re right in the middle of sleepless nights, tantrums, and double diaper changes. I have a hard enough time wrapping my head around what is to come for the day when I wake up in the morning, never mind years and years down the road.
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