I am the mother of three boys.  Two have reached the teenage years, one is hovering at eleven, watching his brothers from a child's point of view, wondering if he will be as tall, as self confident, as teenager-ish. 

Daniel came into the world on a rainy Tuesday mid-morning. I remember holding him, looking out the window of my hospital room, and watching the rain beat against the pane. I remember thinking all the world had changed, forever and for good. My baby boy in my arms--warm, comforting. 

Michael arrived at 10:09 p.m. after the passing of a sunny, early-June day. I stayed home for most of my labor, hoping to avoid too much time in the hospital bed. We left our house at 9:30 p.m., arrived at the hospital at 9:51 and Michael was born 18 minutes later. I remember looking at the clock as we entered the emergency room entrance. The doctor never made it to Michael's birth, and a midwife who happened to be on the delivery floor came into my room just in time to catch my beautiful blue-eyed boy.

David is another story that I will leave for another day. My precious miracle, born at 29 weeks gestation on another rainy Tuesday in February, almost three months early, weighing 2 pounds 9 ounces. He is a miracle. There is no doubt. Sometimes, when he is in a precarious situation or if he is heading out the door on his bicycle and I stop to pray for his safety, he says to me, "Mom, if God wanted me dead, he would have taken me out in the incubator." His words of assurance that he will be okay are not minced or lacking confidence. I love that boy.

Here is a small poem about Michael that just came out a few minutes ago. Sometimes my poems are quite simple and to the point. This is one of them.

Michael

I remember these little hands

That used to reach up to me.

I would bend down,

Place my own hands along his sides

Lift him to my hip

Kiss his forehead.

Now my son is tall enough

I can lay my head on his shoulder.

His blue eyes survey the room,

Looking for mischief.