From the time I was a little girl, probably before I could even speak, I knew I wanted to be a mom. I remember taking care of my baby dolls, feeding them, clothing them, cutting their hair (sorry mom), and imagining what kind of mother I’d be when I had children of my own. Like many little girls, I had their names picked out and loved them long before it was even possible for any children of mine to exist.

I became a mom 13 years ago this Friday. It’s hard to believe that my little five-pound baby boy will be a teenager now. Of course, he’s been looking forward to this day for the last 365, but his mom is a little reluctant to watch him grow up.

Not all that long ago, I remember laying on the couch with him in his baby swing next to me, completely exhausted and overwhelmed, but so full of pride and love as I looked at this perfect little human who refused to go to sleep. For 13 years, I’ve kissed hundreds of boo-boos, cleaned up more vomit than I ever thought could come out of such a small being, changed diapers, been spit on and bitten, felt my heart drop more times than I can count, but despite it all, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kids really make you grow up. Of course, when I was 21 and expecting Michael, I thought I knew everything there was to know about the world and I could handle anything that came my way. Boy was I wrong. 13 years into this whole parenthood thing, and I’m still figuring things out along the way.

I only had one kid, though my little-girl imagination would have loved to have a dozen or so. But, that one boy takes up all of my heart. The older he gets, the more I see the man he’ll be (soon, too, as it certainly goes by so fast like they say it does). He is witty, athletic, compassionate, handsome and smart. He makes me laugh all the time, and I am constantly thankful that I have the opportunity to be his mom.

So, happy 13th birthday to my Michael. I hope his year is full of happiness and love, and that he continues to view the world through his kind eyes and that the world is kind right back to him. He may be my only kid, but the love he receives from his mom is enough for those dozen or so siblings I once imagined.

My great-uncle Kenneth is the type of guy who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. I mean that literally. The last time I saw him at a family reunion down in Arkansas, we were out to eat at a restaurant and I had goosebumps on my arms because I had a seat under an air conditioning vent. Kenneth, being the type of person he is, started unbuttoning his shirt to give to me.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle Ken,” I told him, though I’m not sure I was completely convincing. I guess he’s not one to adhere to the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” rules of dining out. Of all of my extended Davis relatives, I always took a special liking to Kenneth. This could have something to do with the fact that his late wife, my aunt Barbara, and he let me call them Barbie and Ken (which, as a little girl, I thought it most fascinating to be related to a REAL LIFE Barbie and Ken).

After my grandpa, Ken’s oldest brother, passed away, I noticed how similar the two are. Soft spoken and kind men, they also look so very much alike. Family men who love with their whole hearts, these two Davis men were raised to work hard for what they have and to take care of those whom they care about.

In the middle of his junior year of high school, Uncle Ken was called to serve in the Korean War. At some point, he completed his GED. However, this week, at 86-years-old, Bryant High School in Bryant, Arkansas, recognized Kenneth, honoring him for his service and the sacrifices he made so many years ago, with his high school diploma.

I’m proud to be his niece, and I’m grateful for those who feel called to serve this country. Thank you, Uncle Ken, for being the humble, caring, kind man that you are, and thank you to all of the men and women who, on Veterans Day and every day, deserve to be recognized for what they have given us. Happy Veterans Day, and may God bless every one of you.