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Wednesday, April 21, 2004

eight years ago today

Please pardon the mushy nature of this post. Mothers will understand.

April 21, 1996



April 21, 2004


It just doesn't work quite the same, does it. The picture does not adequately convey -- probably because I am, as I have mentioned many times, an oversized ox-woman -- how monumentally BIG that boy is. He is 50th percentile for height and weight... for an eleven-year-old. We feed him well.

Still, there's nothing like a cuddle. When he was a baby, a teeny tiny newborn, a day old, just trying to get used to life outside his little uterine haven, he would stop crying instantly if someone rubbed his head. (Maybe it reminded him of the comfort of bouncing his head repeatedly against my bladder. He certainly did seem to enjoy that during his stay in Chez Maman...) Even during baths, which he hated -- as soon as you started rubbing the shampoo on his hair he'd quiet down and look up at you with those big blue eyes that always looked like he was doing some serious contemplation (he looked like a little old man as a baby, minus the excess hair). Anyway, as he grew he'd climb in my lap and ask me to "cuddle his head", and I'd run my fingers through his hair over and over until he fell asleep. Nowadays, every once in a great while, he'll still ask for a cuddle, but usually it's me, hauling that hulk of a child up into my lap (which is not as easy as this picture makes it look) so that I can have my baby boy back for a few minutes.

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Here's a little -- THING, not a poem exactly -- that I wrote just after his fifth birthday. It still applies. :) CAUTION: EXTREME MUSH FACTOR. Could be hazardous to your health. Proceed with caution.

You used to live under my skin.
My every breath and motion rocked you.
My muscles wrapped around you in a protective embrace.
Your movements kept me company.
Your presence answered my prayers and filled my dreams.
You gave my body a reason for being.

Then you were a noisy bundle of Boy
hungry for my breasts, needful of my attentions.
I doted on you (along with the rest of Western civilization).
I fed you, held you, stroked your head, changed your pants, dressed you in fuzzy yellow sleepers.
You gazed at me like I was the only person you ever needed to see in the world.
I have never felt so important in my life.

I turned my head, and then looked back at you
and found in place of that bundle
this tall
capable
headstrong
loving
beautiful
intelligent
PERSON.
Who told you your legs could get that long?
When did you get permission to be four feet tall
and learn to read
and make up stories out of your own head
and have a best friend?
It is almost impossible to see that needy, helpless baby in this joyful, wonderful boy before me.

That is, until I creep in when you are sleeping
and fold you into my lap with your head under my chin.
You almost wake up, but then
your breathing is even and your lashes are on your cheeks.
(who says you can have lashes like that?)
I rock you gently back and forth
and cuddle your head.
You are busy dreaming about dinosaurs or animal crackers
or motorcycles or big trucks or helicopters
or jigsaw puzzles.
You don't even know your Mommy is wetting your stubbly
hair with her tears.
I have found my baby boy again.
You won't remember this moment in the morning
but I shall never forget it as long as I live.

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Happy eighth birthday, birthday boy. It's such a blessing to be your mother.

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