I thought I would feel terrible. I thought I would cry. That's what I used to do when my son had a birthday.

When he turned one, I wanted him to be six months again so he would be content to lie in my arms. And when he turned two, I wanted him to be one so I could watch, for a second time, his first steps. Most of his life I've been like this, wishing time…

The soon to be 21-year-old came home from school last weekend and mentioned - solely to induce guilt, I know - how the mother of one of his roommates had suddenly appeared at their doorstep one day, like some angel of mercy, her arms laden with bags and bags of groceries. "She even made us meatballs," he said.

My guilt was instantaneous. Groceries and meatballs…