In this moment, eleven years ago, I was in labor with my son. I don’t remember much of that day, just flashes of images and feelings. I do remember it was a Thursday, like this year, because I remember watching Survivor in the evening while waiting to go in for a C-section after 21 or so hours of labor that didn’t progress. Isn’t it funny, that’s what I remember clearly? That’s about all you’ll get from me about the whole experience. While the birth experience seemed a big deal at the time, since then I’ve discovered it’s irrelevant in the whole. It’s the life experience that really matters for a child.

So here he is, eleven years old today. At times self-assured and confident in who he is, at times unsure and finding his way. On the verge of those teenage years, I see the mix of teen and child in him almost every day.

He wants his independence but he still wants the comfort of his parents. He still asks me to snuggle before bed, enjoying the quiet time together. He will still grab our hand to hold when he’s not thinking about it. We don’t say anything when that happens, we just quietly enjoy it because sooner or later he will realize that he’s holding our hand and snatch it away. In his mind, he’s too old for that.

I see glimpses of who he is at his heart, and where he may struggle in life. There are some ways he is so similar to me or my husband, and we know how these traits have affected us. We know what we’ve had to overcome. How it affects him remains to be seen, I must remember. He is his own person.

As I do every year on this day, I pause for a moment to reflect on what it means to be a parent. Parenting continues to be the most challenging and personal job I’ve experienced. It’s funny how it’s just assumed you will grow up, get married and have kids. As if it’s the easy path because most everyone does it. But it seems to me, being responsible for the growth of a young soul as a parent is possibly the most challenging path of all.

I want to do a good job, for my son. He deserves it.