Once upon a time, on a chilly winter’s day in July, I gave birth. And I became a mother.
Raindrops formed delicate grey dashes on the high glass window of my hospital room. I stared at an obscure Monet print and screamed. The goldfish I’d bizarrely brought into the delivery suite to ‘focus on’, swam in circles, forgotten.
This little boy that I brought into the world was like no child I had ever imagined, but from that very first moment, indeed even before that first moment, I loved him with a purity of heart that promised to keep me on the better side of humane for the rest of my days.
That moment when eternity smiles at you and your heart cracks wide open.
And the little boy grew, as little boys do.
Fifteen years past.
On his birthday I woke him up in his den still of boyness. He had cake and presents and wore the gold paper crown I placed on his head. When he went over to his dad’s house in the afternoon, I drove him. It was his birthday. It was our birth day.
I drove into the driveway, the same driveway, the same house I had brought him home to all those years ago. But this time I would drive away and he wouldn’t follow until he was ready.
When I turned to hug him goodbye he squeezed me tight in a way he never, ever does and picked me up. He picked me up! Off the ground. And I wanted to cry. Because how did he get so big? And how did this all come to pass? These fifteen years, gone like that, this man child — my son?
All grown.9 Comments