Drifting
Usually, when I think of A, I have a jumbled impression of his wildly convoluted stories about building houses and killing bad guys, tantrums over going to bed, elaborate coffee table altars and painstaking Lego constructions.
Occasionally, though, I am struck by A as, simply, himself. The first instance I remember is when I realized he no longer had the baby smell, that soft aroma of milk and soap, but instead, smelled sweaty and dirty, because he was no longer a baby but a little boy. He must have been around two at the time. A year ago, when he was three, I was holding his hand after he had fallen asleep, and I felt the calluses that had grown as a result of his hard playing. It was a shock to discover that he no longer had the soft, fleshy hands of a baby, but the vaguely hard, dry hands of a man. Tonight I checked on A after he was asleep. He was rolled up in his comforter, and as cute and vulnerable as he looked, I also felt that I saw a glimmer of the man he would become. He had fallen asleep in the car, still wearing his school clothes—a polo shirt and khaki pants. I was reminded of my father or husband, snoozing on the couch, head drooping over a book or a baseball game.
I see in these moments that though A grew in my body for nine months, he does not belong to me. He belongs to himself. He is journeying toward adulthood, and though I can help him on this journey, I cannot make it for him.
He drifts away from me a little bit. A tiny piece of my mother-heart breaks. But there is such joy, too, in the specificity of this person who is my child, and it seems to take a bit of distance to be able to see it.
Occasionally, though, I am struck by A as, simply, himself. The first instance I remember is when I realized he no longer had the baby smell, that soft aroma of milk and soap, but instead, smelled sweaty and dirty, because he was no longer a baby but a little boy. He must have been around two at the time. A year ago, when he was three, I was holding his hand after he had fallen asleep, and I felt the calluses that had grown as a result of his hard playing. It was a shock to discover that he no longer had the soft, fleshy hands of a baby, but the vaguely hard, dry hands of a man. Tonight I checked on A after he was asleep. He was rolled up in his comforter, and as cute and vulnerable as he looked, I also felt that I saw a glimmer of the man he would become. He had fallen asleep in the car, still wearing his school clothes—a polo shirt and khaki pants. I was reminded of my father or husband, snoozing on the couch, head drooping over a book or a baseball game.
I see in these moments that though A grew in my body for nine months, he does not belong to me. He belongs to himself. He is journeying toward adulthood, and though I can help him on this journey, I cannot make it for him.
He drifts away from me a little bit. A tiny piece of my mother-heart breaks. But there is such joy, too, in the specificity of this person who is my child, and it seems to take a bit of distance to be able to see it.
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