Mothering::

Oh my little grunting, farting, squirming human,
Wiggling your way across my body in the dark of night, 
From my chest where you frantically devour your nutrients, each time as if this might be perhaps your last meal,
Swallowing ravenously, too much air, too much milk, too much everything for your tiny belly — we work together in an elaborate dance of discomfort to help you reverse part of the damage, 
You gasp, moan, and cry, pausing for moments of silence to stare at the shadows in the shadows in the shadows on the wall, or maybe the ghosts here that haunt us, as the streetlights revoke our right to pitch darkness, as the lights of various electronics remind us they are there, we wait for you to find a moment of calm, of clarity, of peace. We listen to the white noise, the fake heartbeat soundtrack, the forced movement in the air.

Tonight, you’ve granted us four hours straight of sleep, thus far, and I’m grateful for that despite your new habit of clawing at my chest and neck while you eat, your nails never cut close enough to limit the damage. But I don’t mind when you accidentally punch me square on the nose or when you scream bloody murder as we’re stuck in traffic on 101 that’s going no where fast. In between the shrieking cries and rapidly devouring milk from my body that somehow creates all the nutrients you need to now almost double in size from your birth weight, there are those fleeting minutes when you look at me and smile that gummy little unobstructed smile of yours, innocent and pure, letting me know exactly who is in control here.

My heart melts and I wonder whose little lost child this is, and I tell myself in disbelief time and again this child isn’t lost and this child is mine. I am a mother. These words still don’t ring true for me yet, even though I was very much there the day you were born and I remember it quite vividly. But you’re my son, and my greatest love in all my life, and an alien who is his own creature with his own personality far from the calm of other babies your age. You’re more a tiny boy than a baby, and others have said this as well — perhaps we’ve skipped the baby stage and gone straight to boyhood, whatever that means. I tell you often you are beautiful — at least as few frequently as I tell you that you’re handsome. I remind you, though you don’t remember yet, that you can be anyone and anything you want to be, as long as you’re kind to others.

I study your face at every opportunity as it’s changing so fast. We love to look at each other in the dark and you stare up at me as I pretend to sleep, while staring down at you. In the stroller, on occasion, your eyes grow remarkably wide and just stare at me, through me, as if you are realizing I was your home for nine months and now am your milk machine and pillow and your greatest fan and biggest protector. I love you in ways I don’t yet even know how to love. I’m terrified of the world I cannot give you, even though I’ll try my best and give you whatever it is I can. I’ll try my best to be happy with that. As as you grow and learn to push my buttons I’ll smile and gently push yours back with a sense of humor that will power us through the difficult times.

And I’m sure the years will flicker by fast as the flame of babyhood melts into childhood and adolescence and beyond. I’ll try to always cherish the moments, like now, as you again bat me straight on the nose with a elastic clunk. I don’t mind. I don’t mind it at all. I love you and the four hours of sleep you just gave me as a gift this evening. I’m hoping for four more but I know not to get greedy. I’m here to take it all one exhaustingly beautiful and exceptionally novel moment at a time. To keep my eyes open despite exhaustion, and to try my best not to blink, to capture everything in all of my senses before all of our moments ahead are far behind us. I cherish this insanity, the lows and the highs. You give me a reason to be better, and to be at all.