You turned 2 months this Monday, March 7. I put the 2-month sticker on your onesie and did the obligatory photo for the collage I will make when you turn a year old.
I haven't been your mommy for that long yet, but already you taught me so much. On your birthday, you taught me a special kind of love. In these first few months of your life, you redefined for me courage and fear.
It's different now that you are no longer a part of me, riding in my belly. I jumped at your cries the first few nights in the hospital, desperate to soothe your discomfort. I watched you get passed from family members to friends, feeling pride but also sometimes a sense of jealousy, that I must share you now that you are your own entity. I did not intend to co-sleep with you, sharing your father's and my king-sized bed as you have your own tasteful, expensive crib and a nursery furnished and decorated with care and love. But as it is the only way you'd fall asleep calmly, with minimal fussing, I succumbed. I got to know you 24x7 since you are constantly by my side, spending very few hours apart. It is not the way I envisioned raising my children, least of all a strong and independent, non-clingy son. I tried to crib-train you for naps. The first few days I put you in there and staggered back to my own bed for some much-needed sleep, I ended up laying there, curled into a ball, straining to hear if you'd cry, feeling the emptiness inside me where once you had filled me to such large proportions.
There are days when you'd cry inconsolably.
Colic, they say, but when your lips are stretched wide in a scream and your face turns red, I wonder what might be ailing you. I wonder if there's a hurt inside you I'm not aware of or can't fix. In my quest to do my best by you, I am bound to fail many times; I hope you'll forgive my mistakes, made from my best intentions. I think about your future, when you start crawling and then walking and then running; I won't possibly be able to keep you from inevitable injuries--your first splinter, scratch, bruise. I can't protect you from all the bad in the world--people who slander you, bullies, thieves. I can't enmesh your heart in iron and steel; the heart is glass, the heart can break. The girl who first holds its fragility in her hands and carelessly shatters it without a second thought is someone whom I cannot stop you from meeting and falling for.
There are days when you'd break into a smile.
A social smile, they say, not just a muscle reflex flashed as you are dreaming, but a gift given freely for my sleepless nights, my aching muscles. I am reminded of courage I forgot I possess. I will stand in the way of anyone who physically tries to hurt you. My body stretched for you; I bled for you; I'd fight for you. In a fickle world of inconstancy, one thing remains true: I am your mother, for now and for always. The world can be ugly, my son, but it is beautiful, too. One day I will show you. The searing heat of Viet Nam, its endearing people, its sweet, delicious fruits. The fresh, frigid air of a Canadian spring. The simplicity and colors of Mexico. The awe-inspiring architecture of England. The artwork and romance of France. The azure waters of French Polynesia. The diversity and freedom of the United States.
Mothers live in constant fear. They read stories of stillbirths and SIDS and hug their babes to their chest just a little harder. They strive to breastfeed but second-guess their ability. They map out a plan for how to raise their children and fail on Day 1. They think deeper about lost children, kidnappings, sex offenders, murderers. They give it their all and cry and cry when it's not enough. They are irrational, whiny, paranoid, downright crazy. They become afraid of everything. And they are the strongest and bravest people I know.
No comments:
Post a Comment