"What percent of life has changed? Ninety percent? Ten percent? A difficult question, perhaps not phrased in the best manner," the inquirer admitted.
I stumbled. "Well, I'm used to being a mother. Ummm, so perhaps when he was just a month old, everything was completely different. Now, I don't know, fifty percent? I'm better with children now, I understand them more. I'm more curious about them."
As I write, my son brings book after book to my husband to read. His feet pound across the office carpeted floor as my husband requests another book. He bangs on the drawer.
Last year we rolled him up in blankets and walked down the lane. This year he pushes his stroller down the hill, I cringe as I watch him race down hill far faster than his legs can go.
Last year he voice creaked and sputtered. His hands scratched at his face. This year he points and says, "MMMmmm," emphatically. He reaches for a my husband's hand to assist his climbing.
One hundred percent. I see everything with my son in mind. He would like this. He would dislike that. As a recent date with my husband wound down, we stopped in a bookstore. I drifted towards the children's toys. I unsubtly stared into a stroller containing a newborn baby. The child was beautiful and my smile was radiant at such beauty. The child's mother chatted on a cellphone while the grandfather beamed, appreciating my delight for his grandchild. One hundred percent.