(If you will indulge me, I would like to share a letter written to my son for his 10th birthday. Because sometimes, it's not sharing advice that gets us through. It's sharing our heart. Crossposted from my personal blog ...)
A decade ago today, my whole life changed.
I think, in hindsight, I was probably too young and too naive for
such a change, but I asked for it, and hot damn did I ever get it. As
of 11:20-something on April 14th, 1998, almost two weeks past when it
was “due” to happen, not one thing about me has remained unchanged.
And thank god for that.
Everything I thought I loved, everything I imagined meant any little
thing to me, is long gone. Every vinyl album, every trinket of my past,
every book I’ve ever wanted to read, or movie I wanted to watch, every
man I’ve ever loved; none of it really matters all that much.
I still really like solitude. I just grew accustomed to living
without it. I still really like books and movies. I just look at them
like little treats now. I still really, REALLY love being in love, and
the whole dance that goes with it, but I have learned that this love,
this little boy, is so much more and better and grand than anything I
will ever know otherwise.
I held a tiny person in my arms, under my chin, to my chest and in
my lap, and I dreamed. I dreamed of first birthdays and bike rides. I
dreamed of trick or treats and kindergarten. I never dreamed
of today, of this, of a decade. I couldn’t; it was too far away, like
trying to picture the infinity of space. Even now when it’s here upon
me, I cannot fathom the fact that it’s been 10 years. That I have
kissed his sweet face and tucked him into his bed 3,650 times. That I
have spent (almost) every single day with him and have witnessed every
step, every inch of growth, both inside and out. That little baby,
who’s voice I tried to imagine when I closed my eyes at night, now
speaks of things I never knew, of interests that are not from me but of
his own yearning to learn.
He is trying to separate from me now, wanting independence and
responsibility and relationships outside our family. He wants so much
to be his own man, and yet, in tiny little ways, he still needs his
momma, even though he’d never admit it. When he realizes that he left
every stinking Gameboy game he owns in the car and now they’re gone, he
doesn’t go to his room to cry. He comes to me still. He buries his head
in my lap and he sobs while I rub his curly little head. He still sits
on the kitchen stool while I make him a little chocolate something to
ease the sadness. He still lets me brush his teeth every once and a
while, still lets me help pick out his outfits and tie his shoes…he is
still my baby, if only for a little while more.
I never thought I wanted this. I never thought I could do this. Ten
years, one decade later, I am more afraid than I have ever been in my
life, because I realize today that this was the only full decade I will
ever get with him. The next time we hit this mark, he’ll be busily
pursuing a degree or a career or a girl. He won’t be under my roof. He
won’t share the early hours in the morning with me before the rest of
the family gets up. He’ll be his own, and will have achieved the
independence that he is fighting for right now, and I don’t want to
imagine life without this. Without him. He is the greatest thing I have
ever done, and he has changed and reshaped me more than any other
person or thing could ever hope to.
And I don’t just mean like this.
(I have shown exactly TWO people in my whole life that picture, taken
mere hours after he was born, and if you give me crap about it, so help
me god I’ll hurt you. YOU try gaining 105 pounds.)
One decade ago, one lifetime ago, I stood on a platform with a
stranger in my arms, and I jumped. I closed my eyes, and I jumped into
the rest of myself.
