The Boy Who Made Me a Mother
It was you. I was instantly besotted by you, a dark headed son, five pounds, one ounce, nearly five weeks early. My heart would never be the same.
I cradled you in my arms and thought to myself, I can’t believe they’re going to just let us leave with him. For good reason, our big old furnace had run out of oil and so, we wrapped you in a fleece blanket and handed over a credit card to warm you that cold December day.
Jaundice, dehydration, my milk hadn’t come in and I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know? We stood watch over the tiny incubator and your first Christmas was spent beneath blue light.
Every two hours, I nursed you. Snippets of sleep were hard to come by, but you were my pot of gold.
You slept between daddy and me, cozy in a bright yellow sleep sack, and every so often, we would get a nice long stretch of four hours or so.
My dissertation beckoned me and so, the two of us hopped on a plane when you were just a month old. We headed south to your grandparents where, you were watched by Mamie, and I wrote and typed and rewrote and typed some more.
I loved you from the get go. That very second, I saw the double line on that stick, I fell head over heels and I never have recovered.
It was your existence that made me long for another and when your brother came along just a year and half later, big brotherhood suited you.
Your birth eclipsed my soul and made me wonder how I had lived so long and not known the depth of a mothering heart.
Happy 13th birthday, my son. Though I hope your dreams are big and your days are many, the earth has been made better for the gift of you.