Being There

Valentine’s Day always makes me wonder what other people's most significant "Be There Moment” is.  The moment I fell head over heels in love with my (eventual) husband was my most important one.  

I imagine everyone's had a Be There Moment. 

The Hail Mary is thrown, you run your ass off to get to the ball, close your eyes and reach out your hands with a simple prayer, “Be there.”  And it is.  

You get to the bank/store/airport and can’t find your check/wallet/tickets/passport.  You wrack your brain wondering where in the hell it could be, run back to your car/locker/apartment and just pray, “Please be there,” and it is.  They go on and on.

Mine was Super Bowl Sunday 1994, a little after midnight.  A soft tap on my dorm room door.  “Be there,” I prayed.  And he was.  Happy Valentines Day Moon. I’d do it all over again.   

Wishing everyone a lovely V-Day Weekend with someone they love.

I and Love and You

The bane of blatant honesty with your very inquisitive young child is that you will then have to have these kinds of conversations for so much longer.  Maybe I should have opted for the "You were found in a cabbage patch" responses until he was 10 or so.

"Mommy, how much love do I have to make for a baby brother?"

"Say again?"

"You said you have to make the love to have a baby. I’ve been making lots of love and don’t have one yet."

"And how have you been doing that?"

"I made a bunch of hearts and flowers and stars, and even one of me, you and Daddy holding hands. It’s not working. Is it not enough love?"

"Honey you have all the love you’ll ever need.  But to have a baby brother, it’s mommy and daddy who have to make THE love."

"Oh. Well, I’ve got LOTS of crayons. Can YOU try?"

Dawning of a New Age

With the holidays coming and just as quickly going, I've been feeling an intangible sense of loss. I left the house early this morning, kissing my sleeping five-year old's warm cheek and whispering endearments. As I tiptoed downstairs, I was able to pinpoint what's been melancholically hounding me. I've been grieving my son's childhood. Silly really, given that he's only five going on six. But still, witnessing his almost dogmatic belief in all things "Santa," I recognize how fleeting it all is. Each inch he grows makes me shrink a little inside. The older he gets, the less of me he'll need. The less he currently needs. I witness him slyly wiping my kisses from his cheeks (at least he still comes for kisses). I can already feel the loss of his sweet confidences, those heartfelt hugs and even his unruly tears that I've known as a first-time mom.

I'm already grieving the loss of my son.

These feelings of loss have begun to make me think of motherhood as time-limited, a vocation that requires unlimited amounts of gear; mittens with strings and zippers, car seats, bags of Cheerios. As I slowly begin to put away childish things, I worry that I will have outlived my usefulness to him. Relegating myself to just a sweet-and-sour relic of our past.