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I have certainly never done anything remarkable with the life I have been given …
A film is not going to be created about me.
A song will never be written.
You will not find me among those who will forever be embedded on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Nor will a statue ever be erected in my honor.
City streets will not be named after me.
Future generations will not call their baby girls "Julie."
As a matter of fact, in just a few short decades, there will be no one left here to even remember my name.
My mind regrets not having achieved far more.
I hate regrets. The "I wishes."
There are several which come to mind.
I wish I could have taken a walk on a beach, holding hands with someone who truly loved me.
Genuinely loved me. Not the pretend kind.
However, I have not once found myself to be financially secure enough to vacation along a coastline of any kind.
And love is for those who possess qualities which are apparently not within me.
My mind holds a lot of regrets.
My soul holds the rest.
I hate that, too.
But despite all of the missed opportunities, and disregarding all of the times I have failed along the way, there is that one constant.
That one constant which offers me something to keep holding on to.
The one light among all of that darkness.
For God to have found me worthy enough to choose me to be the mother of Dylan, Caleb and Noah … that is more than enough.
There is nothing else I require.
Not a musical dedication.
Not a five-starred terrazzo and brass star which supposedly deems whether or not I have become a "success."
Not a documentary or non-fiction novel which delves into those private, personal moments meant only for you.
No, I do not need the adoration of today's society or to be remembered by future generations.
My heart recognizes that my life has indeed surpassed these forms of "popularity."
Simply by being the mom to those three boys.
They are my reason for continuing to take that next breath.
And the next.
And the next.
Today is my youngest son's 26th birthday. Happy Birthday, Noah. Where did all that time go?
Where is that 3-year-old child who would immediately stop whatever he was doing to come and lay beside me when I wasn't feeling well?
Where is that 5-year-old boy who would reach out his hand for me to take because of my anxiety while driving on the snow-covered roads?
That tiny hand in mine, telling me it would be OK?
Where is that Noah who had such a talent for basketball, that he continued playing for years despite not wanting to? Only for his mother's sake?
The one who could never pass a crane game without asking me for a dollar. Even at the age of 18.
Where is that teenager who would make me drive him four or five blocks to the high school and then text me an hour later to see if I would bring him McDonald's for his lunch? This was to be followed by his waiting until 11 p.m. to inform me he didn't do his homework and then pleading with me to do it for him? Even if it included reading an entire Shakespeare play and answering five essay questions. (I still can't believe I got a C on that.)
Where is that boy who always made me laugh? Like the time he was carrying a yardstick into the woods and I asked, "Why do you have a yardstick?" To which he responded, "Why wouldn't I have a yardstick?"
Touche, Noah. Touche.
Where did that teenager go who always blasted music of the 1960s and 1970s from his bedroom?
Hearing the Eagles or Queen blaring from the next room?
That was one of my proudest parenting moments, right there.
When did you change? When did you transform into this handsome, brave, dedicated soldier serving in his seventh year as part of the Air Force's Tactical Air Control Party?
When did you become the always-respectful-to-others, overly-generous, compassionate and sympathetic person who now stands before me?
The answer to that is ... always.
You have always been that person. For 26 years you and your brothers have given me that remarkable life which I thought I had been missing.
Turns out I haven't missed a thing.
I have something so many others might be missing.
How I appreciate those rare moments when the three of us can be in the same room together.
It's funny when your children teach you something, isn't it?
Although he will never see this column, I would like to once again, wish him the happiest of birthdays.
My Noah, I thank you for letting me be your mom.
It was my honor.
(Stenger is the community editor for the Herald-Star and Weirton Daily Times.)