I am now a mother of a sixteen year-old.
Such a very strange thing, sixteen years.
I have moved ten times since he was born.
We have been joyful and broke and silly and miserable and creative and frustrated and heartbroken and hopeful.

Thousands of mistakes were made and I have plenty of regrets to bear.
It is perhaps just the nature of the first child to be scarred by the unintentional missteps of his parents.
I was only 23 when he was born. I thought I was so ancient then.
I knew nothing. The only thing I know now is how utterly ignorant I am.

The one constant though, the one redeeming force, has been love.

16 years.