I was 23 years old when I became a mom, a naive Minnesota white girl who had only witnessed great moms (my own didn't like me very much). I knew little other than this boy would know he was loved.
I made horrific mistakes. Alcohol. My sketchy friends. Permissiveness. Blind acceptance of his desires and decisions through an ill-conceived effort to allow him to learn by consequence. I didn't often know where he was at 10 PM. He survived it all with aplomb.
In his 40s now, and despite me, he's the kindest, gentlest, most giving son, man, and dad of two I've ever known. And his children know they are loved.
Maybe that's enough sometimes. Just love them.
