My youngest son Tyler is 23 today. Twenty-three years ago he decided to come about 7 weeks earlier than his due date. He was three pounds five ounces. Today he is six foot one and over two hundred pounds. What a difference 23 years make.
Tyler describes himself as a man-child: he would fit right in with the Big Bang Theory guys except he rejects them as too stereotypical—and Tyler is anything but stereotypical. He just moved back home a few months ago after going to college in a city a couple of hours away and has his Marketing Diploma and a bunch of skills learned while living away from home. He knows how to cook a bit and clean up after himself, and do his own laundry—important life skills that translate into an independent young man.
He is caught up in trying to find a job so he can start paying off his student loans, and is worried about his future. I am thrilled to have him home, and since I do not know how long he is going to be here, I have to savour the moments.
We have watched Community and Parks and Recreation in marathon sessions. We have an occasional glass of wine together though beer is his drink of choice. We could both eat pizza every night though I think I might tire of it first.
He is my youngest—when he was gone my nest was pretty quiet. I love having him home and do not look forward to him leaving again, but it is inevitable. Until then I will enjoy him, and on his birthday, celebrate him.