Recently my son was asked to write his memoir for school. The document starts with:
I was born five weeks early because I was drowning in blood.
It has been ten years since that frightful day. The baby slashed out of my body gasping for oxygen has grown into a strapping lad who will probably be taller than me before his next birthday.
The intervening years have seen him through various schools and adventures, singing in the chorus, writing his Lego zine, moving away from his beloved home in the states, making good friends in a new country, traveling the world. His perspective is always measured and accurate; he is the most sensible person in my entire extended family.
He is sweet, and brilliant, and eclectic, and one of my best friends.