He's Nine

Joseph’s entrance into the world was not easy. During the last four hours of labor, I was feverish, passing out between contractions and wondering, in a small corner of my brain, if I was going to survive. I’d been in labor for over thirty hours when my doctor made the decision to move forward with a cesarean and what had been a loop of pain and exhaustion took on the frantic pace of a fast forward film.

I don’t remember much of his delivery. I read about it, sometimes, grateful for the presence of mind in those first few weeks of newborn haze that forced me to write about it. I remember Chad crying. I remember throwing up. I remember the doctors and nurses yelling, “Happy birthday!” I remember him being rushed to NICU. And I remember waking to a blurry Polaroid and Chad grinning ear to ear that he was “beautiful”.

Motherhood was not what I expected. I imagined myself as the quintessential Earth Mother, always patient and loving, never short tempered or frustrated. I was not prepared for the ugliness of motherhood - the sweat, the vomit, the pee, the poop, the blood, the tears; the earthiness less flowing skirts and picking flowers, more elemental.

Today marks nine years of motherhood. Nine years with my Joseph. He’s reached the halfway point of childhood. Another nine years and he will be an adult, ready to conquer the world, or, at least, explore it. The glimpses of the man he will be are becoming more and more visible as we inch closer to the mirage of adulthood.

There is such kindness in him, kindness that humbles and inspires me to be a better person. It’s in the way he snuggles Elizabeth when she’s afraid or patiently rubs my shoulder when I cry at Hallmark commercials. It’s there when he holds my hand because, “I know you need me to, Mama.” It’s in his voice as he matter-of-factly tells me he’s been giving the class bully part of his lunch not because he was forced but because, “He was hungry and you’d be mean if you were hungry too.” It’s there when he gently plays with his baby cousins, helps his toddler friends feel like big kids, and looks after his “little buddy” at school with all the diligence of an older brother.  

I see other glimpses of the man he will be. They appear sporadically, little bursts during an otherwise mundane evening between arguments with his sister over who needs to feed the rabbit and who has to empty the dishwasher.

He wandered over to where I was sitting at my computer and asked, “If you could live for 45 seconds and have them be the most amazing 45 seconds or for 45 years and not accomplish anything, which would you choose?”

“Years,” I replied instantly, barely glancing up.

“Well, if you think about it, if you live an amazing 45 seconds and then die, then you die happy and feeling like you did something really awesome.” He stopped for a moment and said, “It’s what I think about with R. Maybe he lived an amazing three years and that should make us feel better because not everyone has that.”

He shrugged and walked away leaving my mind blown at his ability to process and accept the death of a friend with such profound wisdom.

He knows who he is at such a young age. I hope he always keeps that confidence, that ability to be perfectly content not to do something he doesn’t want to do even if all of his friends are doing it. I hope he always remembers, “I don’t know why you are so concerned with how my hair looks or if my shirt is inside out or if my neck is clean, Mama. It’s not as important as what’s on the inside.”

I hope he always believes in himself. "I signed up to play violin at the school variety show."

"But you don't know how to play! You don't even own a violin."

"I could if I tried. I have two months to learn."

His is a gentle, curious soul. His humor is dry and sarcastic without being caustic. He teases and jokes with a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his mouth. He’s not a rough and tumble boy rolling around like a puppy, but a cautious explorer, a careful friend.

"Why do you let her hit you like that. Push her away and tell her to stop."

He looked at me in surprise, "She's a girl. And she's smaller than me. I can't push or hit her!"

That little baby I held in my arms with legs so skinny I could encircle them with one hand is now wearing bigger shoes than I am. He’s less than a foot shorter than me and when I drag him down for a snuggle, I find it more and more difficult to fit him in that snug place under the place where my heart beats for him and his sister.

We are halfway there, halfway to adulthood.

And while a large part of me wants to pull him back and wrap him tightly in my arms, another part of me is waking and watching, excited to see him fly.