masking & unveiling

Clayton, my firstborn son, turns twelve today.

A dozen years ago, I lay in a coma, unknowingly giving birth to the two pound, nine ounce ride of my life. Given the remarkable, norm-breaking, miraculous way he came in to the world, I should have known to expect no less of him as a human being.

Right out of the gate, Clayton challenged every pre-conceived notion of motherhood I held dear. Infant bonding? Nope. Didn't wake up to see him till he was four days old, didn't bring him home until a month had passed. Sweet rapture of parenting? Forget it. The recovery from my illness left me about as capable of being a mom as I'm capable of understanding why I always get in line behind someone who needs a price check at Publix.

Things only got worse. I wanted him to think in a concrete, logical fashion; he wanted to take life as it came. I wanted him to be neat and orderly; he craved spontaneity and color. I wanted him to be concerned about what people thought of him; he shrugged off the unwritten rules of this world with a consistent, unspoken, fearless "I am me." It was hardly ever a question of disobedience or defiance. Clayton had a pure heart to please. It was more like a quizzical eyebrow raised at the universe:

"I know it's always been done that way, Mom, but let me try this."

For more than the first half of his life, because I didn't know how to do anything else, I tried to shove him in every box I could think of -- every box that had worked well for me. From school to friendship, Clayton rarely approached life in the way I thought that he should. I desperately wanted him to feel successful, but what I didn't realize is that it was only my worry --- my own silly ideals -- that were causing him to feel like he hadn't reached some imaginary bar in the first place.

Things have changed around here in the last few years, though. God opens my eyes each new day to the fantastic person He is creating in my son. Clayton is a brilliant thinker of big ideas, he's a genius in discerning the hearts of people, and he has a heart for God that's amazing to see. He has an amazing grasp of language and humor and storytelling, far beyond his 12 years. He is a compassionate big brother who puts up with far more than he should from the mischievous four-year-old with whom he now has to share his room.

Clayton also responds to the pain of humanity in a way I know that Jesus will use someday. And he helps me see the fun in a world where I can often only see the logic -- the color splashed on my black and white landscape, where I think everyone should be like me.

As I sit here typing, holding Adkins child number three, I have no doubt she will become a better woman from the lessons I've learned while getting to know one seriously remarkable human being over the last twelve years. And I can't wait to see what God makes of Clayton's willing, surrendered heart.

Happy birthday, Clayton. I am so much better for being your mommy.


Postscript: I just read this over again, and after working those words out of my system, I only have one thought left: Good Lord, I have a 12-year-old. Somebody pass me a sedative.