A note for Tre

I told him to put on shoes before he rode his bike. "And not your Crocs, either." He turned and gave me a bitter glare.

"I KNOW, Mom. I'm not a BABY," he said, and thumped his way down the stairs, disdain echoing behind him. I watched him go, and I thought, oh, I know.

I know you're not a baby, because when you were, your legs were fat and dimpled and they churned with delight when your eyes found me. Now your legs are long and lean and those soft knees are armored with roughness. And they are forever in motion, moving away.

I know you're not a baby, because when you were I could always make it better, whatever "it" was at the moment. I knew by the pitch of your voice, by the tension in your face, by rhythm between you and me just what you needed to be calmed. And now I see it, I see the tension and hear your voice slide upward in anger and frustration, but all I know is that you need, you NEED to pull away from me and our rhythm seems to be a battle pitch instead of a song.

I know you're not a baby, because when you were I knew what your days would hold, and I looked forward to the milestones that looked like building blocks, sturdy and solid, that would only take you higher. Now you dive and leap and soar to new abilities, knowledge that you seem to suck out of thin air. You stand behind me when I fuss with the stupid computer, and you sigh and point to things and say with great patience, "Ok, try this for me. Go to the start menu..." I don't know everything you know anymore, much less where it will take you.

I know you're not a baby because when you were my job was long and exhausting and endless and you fit inside my arms and made my life real. Now the job of being your mother is bewildering and endless and my arms are empty, but my hands are free, and my life is so real that it seems I must be a grown up.

I know you're not a baby because when you were I was barely older than a baby myself and now I've been through so much, weathered so many of my mistakes, and learned enough that I think I'm almost ready for you to be born. Almost. 

I know you're not a baby because when you were we fed each other peace. You relaxed best against my chest, and the weight of you settled my heart as nothing ever had. Now you walk into the room and within a breath we are grating on each other. I say the wrong things, you give me those looks. A good day goes quickly bad, and I don't know how to stop it.

I know you're not a baby because when you were I thought you were perfect. People describe it as "pride," the madness of a new mother, but I didn't see how I could be proud of you any more than I could have been proud of a dazzling sunrise. You were a wonder of God's creation, and I couldn't believe you were mine to love.

Now I know you're not perfect, any more than I am, but you dazzle me still. You will be taller than me by the end of the year, and I see almost as much of the good-natured, kind hearted man you will be as I do of the surly adolescent you've become. I cannot believe you are mine to love. I just want you to be ok. I want you to know how much I admire you. I want you to change your shoes before you ride your bike. As you shoulder your way out of my grasp, into the world, I want the world to accept you gently.

Believe me, son. I know.

Comments

[Aimee]

Beautiful!

[Laura]

"I think I'm almost ready for you to be born. Almost."

That took my breath away. I was a really young mom and I can completely relate to feeling this way.

Beautiful, beautiful writing.

[Kristy]

Miss Laura stole my comment. This is so totally right on.

[Amy]

It is so hard to imagine a bitter glance from Tre but they all come to it and, thank God, they all come through it. I surely don't understand God's plan for adolescence. Maybe it is punishment for the crap we put our own mothers through. Sigh.

[Gail Clark]

Sigh. As the mother of a 17 year old boy, I just read your posts with a lump in my throat borne of totally relating to your words, of kinship, membership in the club of mothers of boys. Beautifully real and true.

[Irene]

Beautifully said. Can you write it for a girl so I can send it to my oldest daughter:)

[shauna]

I just stumbled across your blog tonight and I had to tell you I LOVED this post. My baby boy just turned 1 and the way you wrote was a glimpse into my future. It is beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

[shauna]

I just stumbled across your blog tonight and I had to tell you I LOVED this post. My baby boy just turned 1 and the way you wrote was a glimpse into my future. It is beautiful. Thank you for sharing.