"Don't wish this time away." That was what my mom said to me after I casually mentioned how I looked forward to when my son would be able to do lots of fun things with me like hike and run around. At that moment, he was curled in my arms and my own body felt like it hadn't left the couch since we brought him home. Which it pretty much hadn't. Now, just three months out, I better understand her allegiance to savoring each temporary phase.
My son is less a squishy little love nugget, and more a wiggly alert noise maker. Each has its place, but now when I am quietly feeding him at ten thirty at night, his body calm, I know what she meant. I study the swirls in the hair that are rapidly filling in on his head. It seems like the pattern of hair for an old man, and I realize with shocking pain that I won't be there for him when he has grown old. I relayed this thought to my mom and she closed her eyes, nodding her head in recognition. I try to memorize the sweet profile that is changing each day. I feel how his tiny hands absent mindedly scratch my rib cage. The fact that this won't last - that one day I will have to watch him drive away from this home we are only just beginning to build - it's enough to break my heart.
I worry about if I am doing any of this right. Did I feed him enough today? Will his nap schedule put him on track for a good night of sleep (for both of us)? Does he know how loved he is? Maybe it's as simple and as complicated as the song would have it - "You'll never know dear, how much I love you." My mom and I used to sing that together when I was little. Now I sing it to my son. I sing him "Sweet Baby James," another inherited love song. He is like a balloon that I try to continually fill up with all of the good things I have. Somehow it never feels like it will be enough for what he deserves.
God, the Universe, it trusts us with these beautiful small souls sent our way. They are at the mercy of their own needs and whims, and we are rendered helpless with misunderstanding. There is a mental list I run through when his cries pierce my nerves, but first I look at his face and try to feel what is wrong instead. Sometimes there is no answer but to be there with him. His face rests on my shoulder, issuing cry after slow cry. I am transported back to my mom's arms, remembering the feeling of my own cries petering out, determined for her to know that I was serious about my feelings.
No comments:
Post a Comment