I started a practice of journaling to my son when he was about 3 months of age because of something he did. While nursing, he suddenly released my nipple, engaged eye contact, and started a conversation. We “baby talked” to each other back and forth for several minutes while falling into each other’s eyes. Then he made a face that looked an awful lot like a smile and returned to nursing. I was beyond beyond. I had just experienced one of the most beautiful and intimate moments of my life in my first conversation with my infant son.
I did not grow up around babies, so I did not know if this was a regular “baby thing.” Problem was; there was no one to ask. My father was deceased, and my mother was well into Alzheimer’s at that point. Being “older” new parents (I was 41 and his dad 37), I grew concerned that maybe one day my son would be in the same position, wondering what he was like as a baby with no one to describe those intimate precious moments. His dad and I may be off the planet and on to the next thing by the time he marries and has children (especially if he follows in his mother’s footsteps), so I began journaling to give him my memories.
Something about last week’s series of events sparked a remembrance, so I went back to one of his journals, and there it was. When my son was 8, he said two things that left me dumbstruck. The first thing he said happened while we were about to cross the street. It went like this (and I quote from his journal), “Mommy, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you can’t hold my hand to cross the street anymore.” The second thing he said to me occurred about two weeks later (and again I quote), “Mommy, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I regret that I did not spend more time with Daddy when I was a baby. I will be spending more time with him now.”
Could someone pick me up off the floor please?
This past weekend in going through my pain, looking for a birth was the only thing that kept me in it. I told you that when I dropped my son off at his dad’s a week ago, something left the relationship. What I didn’t tell you was that when I got home from dropping him off, I felt like an amputee with an agonizing pulsing phantom limb or, more honestly, I felt like my son had died.
I wasn’t experiencing birth. I couldn’t face it, but I was experiencing death.
Bottom line…I felt crazy. The simple act of leaving my son at his dad’s clearly warranted a cover photo and a four page spread in the DSM V. This level of grief had to be a signal of some deep-seated psychological pathology. And, yet, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling it.
It took me 9 years, 9 months, and 16 days, but I realized that last Sunday, I finally let my son cross the street on his own to be with the father that he has always wanted and needed. The little 8 year old with the porcelain skin, big bluer than purple eyes, and curly black mop-top hair suddenly released my hand, engaged eye contact, and started across the street. He navigated himself safely to the other side while I anxiously waited where he could see me. When he stepped up on the opposite curb, he turned around to face me beaming with pride, with anticipation, and with gratitude.
In that intimate precious moment standing with a lifetime between us, I saw my little 8 year old boy transform into my 17 year old son. We fell into each other’s eyes. Then he made a face that looked an awful lot like a smile, turned, and went into his life on the other side of childhood.
And I was thrilled to know that I had taught him something important. He looked both ways before he crossed the street.
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