Moments

Last night, with no power and rain streaming down, once again, my hands loosely grip an overdue glass of wine. All I wanted to do was unwind.  I had a long day. I did not want to listen. I did not want to speak. I did not want to pay attention to the constant babbling of my child. Being in the dark, with all the regular noises of the day, like TV, computer and video games, gone, I realize, I am his only audience but tonight, I am not up for the job of entertaining. As I put my hands to my face, I ask him to please find something to do. Something that does not require anything of me. To which he replies there is nothing to do without electric and he carries on about how bored he is. At this very moment, I am thoroughly enjoying being bored. My wine and my candle are keeping me company. I merely shake my head and take another sip. Some children are relentless. I have such a child.  As I turn away from the candle I have been staring at for far too long, I finally look in his direction. I was just about to ask him if he wanted to play cards because that requires little concentration and functioning of my brain cells and it will keep him occupied. Before I can open my mouth, he says, “I have an idea”. Great! I impatiently wait for the questions he has taunted me with since we got home. “Can we wrestle, Mom. What are you afraid? Are you a chicken? Don’t want your 12 year old to kick your butt?” But instead, this is what I hear. “Mom, would you like it if I would read to you”?  Sometimes little blessings creep in at the exact moment we need them most. I simply said, “Most definitely”.

Mattie, with candle in hand, runs to his bookshelf and brings back Ink heart, a book I bought him last Christmas and he settles on the couch to read to his mother. To be honest, I cannot tell you what the story was about but I was absolutely captivated by a 12 year old boy. I didn’t think it was possible to love my child any more but as I sat there, the words spilled out over each page, pouring life into me.  His voice was like liquid to me, soothing every part of my tired heart. I felt my sadness subside for a moment and for the first time in a long time, I felt joy. I don’t know if it was in my eyes but somehow this amazing child knew exactly what his mother needed. We have an unusual connection. This I know. I can’t explain it. I was a single mother for 8 years and for so long, all we knew was each other. And now, it was just me and him, me, listening and him, reading. The teacher of words and pronunciation was now the student and all I could do was smile from the inside out. We were the Two Musketeers again and nothing could have been more perfect. It seems in the busyness of our everyday lives, these special times are few and far between. And now, as the clock on the wall ticks by, I realize that soon this moment will be gone, so I drink it in and treasure every second of it. I sit quietly and simply watch him. He dives in to this book I long thought he had forgotten about. His voice is light and articulate as he tries his best to take me on this incredible adventure with him. As I close my eyes, all I can think is God, how I love this child. And how I love this moment.

Small but Beautiful Things

I love reading a great book, writing, playing the violin & the piano, dancing around the house, singing at the top of my lungs, dark chocolate, red wine, looking at the moon, picking lilacs, taking walks with Mattie, talking to my Nana, wishing on stars, secrets, shooting my bow, tiaras, playing in the garden,  Tinkerbell, my 2 doggies, shooting hoops with Matt, martinis with 4 olives, karaoke, summer bonfires, girls night out, snow ball fights, kissing, belting out Nickleback in the car, Harold & The Purple Crayon, whispering, scratches, laughing with pea pod, learning Italian, yard sales with Mom, The Zipper, Tucson,  my wonderful and loyal posse, my amazing family, taking the long way home, the beautiful little boy God blessed me with, playing Twister, "Arbor" nights with Lori, crosswords, Matthew's laughter, jogging until I can't breathe, Christmas morning, dragonflies, a cold beer, my kitties, apple trees, sunsets, my stuffed monkey, cool hats, pretty shoes, pasta, Harley’s, flying, Las Vegas, painting, eating popcorn and watching a great movie, Jaeger shots, Mimosa Sundays, West Palm Beach, thunderstorms, lying in a hammock, wearing a daisy in my hair, walking on the beach, the ballet, pickles, ice pops, cows, fresh cut grass & the smell of the earth right after it has rained. These are just a few of the things that I love or at the very least make my heart smile. They are small but beautiful things.

Daddy Dearest

Michael Levine once wrote, “Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist.” His words echo in my ear each and every time I hang up the phone after speaking with my father. I call him my father because technically that is who he is. But in simpler terms, he is a sperm donor, a birth parent, a genetic twist of biology and fate that I was somehow dealt. I can simplify his title by using one little but powerful word: absent. One would think after having 40 years to adjust my sails to this reality, the sting of his rejection would lessen.  But in truth, it hasn’t. It slaps me in the face with an open hand every time. I have done my best over the years to give this man, whom I hardly know, the benefit of the doubt. I imagine his life was not exactly the path of happiness and ease, yet it’s the bed he made. Only he refused to sleep in it. If not for his alcoholism, maybe he would have been different. Maybe he would have chosen the path of parenthood instead of merely planting his seed and putting on his running shoes. Every time I think that it’s “me” that he didn’t want, I am reminded that he did not just abandon me but also my brothers. He assisted in bringing four living, breathing, healthy children into this world and didn’t stick around long enough to raise any of us. So, intellectually I know that it’s not me, it’s not Jenny that he did not want. He didn’t want any of us. He was not capable of the kind of love and sacrifice it takes to raise children. I am not even sure that as he sits alone now, in his sixties with no family around him, if he has yet learned the art of loving something beyond himself. I guess that is why I hang on. I have the compassion and love for him that he has never been able to extend to me. To picture him dying alone is too much for this daughter to bear. So, I do my best to close the gap, to somehow connect a non-existent bridge between his world and mine. My brothers have long since given up hope of having him be anything more than an unfortunate reality. But for some reason, I do not have the strength to turn my back on him.

Maybe it is selfish of me but I call my father every couple months merely to remind him that he has a daughter and no matter how he tries to deny me, I will not let him. I also reassure him of how much I love and miss him. I have never quite come to terms with what it is I miss about him or even love about him but I guess it’s the idea of the kind of father I wish he had been, rather than the kind of father he actually was, or wasn’t. I assure myself that I am not being spiteful in reminding him of what he walked away from but I suppose in some small way, I want him to hurt. I want him to know an ounce of the pain I have endured in his absence. But the truth is, I only step into his reality for a few moments and then I am gone again. I doubt thoughts of me linger past the hanging up of his phone. I have learned to be a bit braver than I have been in the past. I don’t usually cry anymore over him. I no longer expect phone calls just to check in with me. I no longer expect cards for Christmas’ or birthdays. I no longer expect him to ask about the grandchild he has had no relationship with. Maybe all he wishes is for me to leave him at peace with the notion that I don’t love him and that I curse the day he left but I cannot muster up the strength to let him be.  The little girl in me wishes to tell him how broken and bruised I have been over the years. I long to tell him what my childhood was truly like without him but the truth stares me in the face, knowing full well that possibly my life would not have been any better with him in it. I have repeated all the “what if’s in my head and I am left with no answer. Would my life have been less abusive, less painful had he chosen to stay? I don’t truly know. Maybe it would have opened a far bigger wound. To wrap my mind around such a fact is far too great and wide for me to understand.

Each time I talk to my father, I tell myself that it will be the last time. I will refuse contact with him unless the first step is made by him. But again, I fall short and give in to this overwhelming need to be loved by him. It’s an addiction of sorts, like alcohol. It takes over the body without you even knowing it. Except with alcohol, the hangover only lasts a day or so. This has lasted a lifetime.

Sometimes the hardest part of my fathers’ absence is to explain to my own child where his grandfather is and why he chooses not to see him. It’s something I have been very up front and honest with Matthew about. There is simply no lie or excuse that would explain it away. I tell him that there are good daddies in the world and there are not so good daddies. Unfortunately I was issued the not so good kind. Thankfully Matthew will never know this kind of pain, even if he is a child of divorce. His father takes an active role in his upbringing and the love between them is evident. So to explain to him why my father doesn’t want me or him has been a difficult process. I think he understands more as he gets older. Mattie keeps a picture of him and my father on his bulletin board, a small reminder that at one time, he felt love from this man. It’s a picture of them at a beach in North Carolina. Mattie can’t be more than 5 years old. Those are the memories he chooses to hold on to. I can’t say as I blame him. But as time passes, he asks about his grandfather less and less and my last conversation with my father, Matthew refused to even speak with him. I mouthed the words, “do you want to speak to Grandpa”? He simply shook his head and closed the door to his room. Matthew is smart; smarter than me. He knows when enough is enough. I do not. I keep picking at the scab the moment the wound has healed. And with raw skin bared again, comes the pain that I don’t think I will ever be free of.  

Coulrophobia….it’s no joke!

As I have previously mentioned, I have a bit of OCD which doesn’t necessarily take over my life but can certainly be annoying and distracting. One would think that that affliction would be bad enough, but no, I also suffer from Coulrophobia which is a fear of clowns... My fear is more commonly recognized by the masses than I previously thought and in a world filled with other crazies like me, it’s a comforting notion. Believe it or not I have met many people that simply hate clowns, just like me. I have never understood the appeal of them, even at children’s parties. I mean, what exactly is the attraction? Their painted white faces are scary. The big, floppy shoes, the red nose, the freaky orange hair…I just don’t get it.

I do try to steer clear of anything “clown like”. I don’t care for crazy clown movies, circuses, Italian theatre or rodeos! So you can imagine my surprise when, years ago, I was driving down Route 28. It was a beautiful summer day, with windows open, radio on. I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed a VW bug weaving in and out of traffic behind me. People tend to drive crazy on 28, so I simply stayed in the right lane and went back to singing and enjoying my trip to Kingston. The next time I looked in my rear view, what do you think was right behind me driving that VW? Yup, a full makeup faced, red nosed, orange haired clown! I can imagine that my eyes were as big as saucers. I envisioned that clown witnessing my panic stricken face and he began to laugh a sickly laugh which only convinced me further that all clowns are serial killers. The clown was following me, trying to chase me, trying to run me off the road. I threw my hands up knowing full well this was how I was meant to die!!  A freaky white faced, laughing circus clown driving me off the road in his VW bug!


Soon after, I was able to attend my nephew’s birthday party, as the freaky clown from Route 28 did not in fact, kill me but simply passed me on his way to…well, wherever it is, clowns weaving in and out of traffic are on their way to. But once again, I was faced with yet another clown dilemma. There was not a regular clown in attendance at the party but rather a face painter dressed as a clown. “Great” I told myself. “Now it’s going to want to touch me and my son”! Because I was terrified, my son would not partake in this socially acceptable, fun, birthday activity. He got upset because “mommy won’t do it”. I had no reason for my son to befriend said clown but I saw no need for him to be phobia ridden either. I sucked it up and with a shaking body, quivering lip and a Xanax down my throat; I allowed the clown to paint a garden of white daisies on my face. I knew I was testing my boundaries but with Mattie’s face lit up with excitement, I realized all the anxiety I was suffering was worth seeing that smiling little boy. Minutes later, he proudly displayed the dragon painted on his face. It was an important lesson for me. Avoid clowns at all cost unless you are in the midst of passing along a detrimental phobia to your child or being responsible for chaos where there ought not be any. To date, I am still petrified of clowns. I don’t think I will ever get over my phobia because the truth is, clowns are freaky little creatures and I am okay with that.

But looking back on that day, I just smile to myself. I know I needed to be the parent, putting my own anxiety and fear aside for a little boy who only wanted his face painted.

Empty Nester

My step-dad took all the ancient VHS tapes I had of Matthew’s early childhood and painstakingly put them on cd’s for my ex-husband and I. It’s a gift that I will always treasure. I finally had some time alone last night and decided that it would be a wonderful opportunity to take a stroll down memory lane. As I sat back and replayed glimpses of my little boys first birthday, his favorite crocodile xylophone, his red swing tied to the big oak out back, the stone pile he would play for hours on, flashbacks of the Teletubbies, visions of my former family and the red maple tree in my front yard that I loved so much, I was overwrought with pain and sadness. It sounds ridiculous that instead of seeing that miraculous little face on my TV and smiling and rejoicing at his existence, I began sobbing; uncontrollably. I have realized that when you can cry like that, in the presence of no one, you know it’s more than nostalgia beating up on you. It’s a force far greater.

It all came back to me…the pain, the guilt and the anguish of my 1^st marriage. I think it has less to do with who my ex-husband is as a person but more to do with the idea of the dream I so desperately tried to build, disintegrating before my eyes. I thought I would be married to the same man forever. I thought I would have more children. I thought I would grow old in that little house on the corner. And I thought the family I had grown to love as much as my own, would forever be at my side. Everything changes, this I know. Some by our own choosing and some by some predetermined bend in the road we hadn’t expected. But we are supposed to leave the past in the past, right? At times I don’t know how to leave things in the past when the face of my child, is my past. But without harping too long on all my mistakes or the insurmountable “what ifs” of my past life, I came to one overwhelming, wine induced conclusion. I was suffering from the empty nest syndrome. The problem is that, my son is only 12 years old.

The empty nest syndrome is usually characterized by your last child leaving home, for college, for marriage or any other amazing thing they are meant to experience. As I have mentioned before, my first child is my only child and although he is only 12 and still living under my roof, I feel with each passing day a surge of his independence that I am ill equipped to face.  I know how fast time passes when you have children. They go from diapers to college in a flash and I fear that I will come apart at the seams when my baby bird flies away. I so long for him to be that little boy again and although I know I cannot keep him from growing up, I wish more than anything I could. If nothing else, I wish I was better prepared for the wonderful things he has in store. I do my best to let him have his independence, to be the young man that he needs to be, but I am scared to death. When Matthew was little I was terrified that he would take a tumble down the stairs or run out in the road when I turned my back. Now I worry about some girl breaking his heart or him not being able to fulfill each and every dream that he desires. It’s a funny thing; bittersweet, actually. As a parent you want your children to grow up and live a life that you can be proud of; that they can be proud of.  It’s a parent’s way of knowing they did a good job in raising their children. But on the other hand, once Matthew flies the coop, so to speak, I am scared that I will no longer know who I am. I will always be his mother but my role will surely change. It’s changing now. He will not need me the way he did when he was younger and I fear I will not know my place in the world. Being a mother is all I ever wanted to be and in a way, I feel that title will be stripped from me. It’s simply a matter of time.

For now, I have put away the movies of my child. I am not ready for that stroll down memory lane. Maybe I will do it tomorrow, next week or even next year when the pain of  him growing up doesn’t sting so badly. I can’t help but think that this emotional need I have to keep Matthew with me is my own psychological malfunction that serves no purpose. I am convinced that surely as the sun will rise, my son will grow up, and maybe, just maybe, I will too.

Death of A Fairytale

Ever since I was a little girl, I believed in fairytales and the notion of living happily ever after. I had to. Witnessing all the things I did growing up, I think it was my way of surviving in the world. My brother and I would spend countless hours making up stories and building towering forts on my Nana’s living room floor. In our eyes, the fort, simply made up of chairs, boxes and sheets was our castle and the living room floor was a big moat surrounding us, protecting us from all evil. I made a crown out of construction paper and placed it high on my head so everyone would know that I was special. I would be the distressed princess and my brother; the heroic prince would fight demons with his magical sword, risking his own life to save mine. Those days were simple and happy. They are some of the best memories I can recall from my childhood. I admit, I grew up way too fast. Along the way, I learned a lot about relationships and love; mostly, their failure. But I still wanted to believe in the fairytale. I wanted to have it all one day; a beautiful home, a wonderful and rewarding career, a husband that was passionately in love with me and children that adored me. I suppose I watched too many movies or read too many romance novels but I grew into a young woman believing that my prince charming was out there and one day he would rescue me from the life I was granted. Needless to say, my first marriage did not work out although I was blessed with the most amazing son. I had part of the dream but certainly not the whole fairytale. My friends would merely laugh at me, reminding me that there is no such thing as fairytales; there is no such thing as prince charming. And yet, I still believed I could have it all….especially when I met my second husband. He was everything I could have ever wanted. He was absolutely in love with me. He wanted me and my son and he needed me with his whole heart; something I had never experienced. He wanted to marry me and have a family of our own. We would spend hours making love in front of the fireplace, drinking wine, laughing, telling stories and dreaming big dreams for our future. I could now laugh at all my friends who mocked my fairytale.

He & I finally got married last year after nearly 8 years together. Our relationship had its share of ups and downs over the years but one simple fact remained, we loved each other and could not see a life without each other. There was no denying that. And as I sit here today, I still love him and am still in love with him, but my dream of the fairytale is dying a slow and painful death. My closest friends are kind enough to not say “I told you so” but the look they give me tells me all I need to know. They had been right after all. There is no such thing as having it all. It has been a devastating blow to my world. Although I wanted the so called fairytale, I was not naïve enough to think that this prince and princess would not have their share of problems. Every marriage does. Everyone has bills, arguments, kids, dogs, cats, a messy house and a plethora of other things that can weigh down a marriage. I went into this union with an open mind and an open heart. I was prepared for anything. Well, almost anything. I did not expect so many changes to happen so quickly. People keep saying the first year of marriage is the hardest. It’s merely a time to get to know one another. I married him because I already knew him, knew his quirks and I knew his heart. That’s why I married him. But sometimes in a marriage, life’s issues become so great, people become so stressed out that something has to give. Something must fall by the waist side and I fear it has been me.

 The part of the fairytale that remains is this big, beautiful home that we built a couple of years ago which now seems far too large to fit our needs. My near teenage son spends most of his time in his room with the door shut and usually only ventures out to ask when dinner will be ready. He is far too cool to hang out with his mom anymore. My vision for this house was to be filled with the pitter patter of little feet. There was supposed to be the sound of nursery rhymes and bedtime stories. There was supposed to be the sound of laughter to fill up all the empty space of this big beautiful house. But as I said, some fairytales are not meant to be. My husband and I both have jobs but nothing that propels us out of bed each morning except for the fact that we have bills to pay. We each have our own friends and our own hobbies. We don’t have a fireplace anymore. We don’t ever drink wine together anymore. We don’t really discuss our dreams anymore. We discuss work, the house, the pets, racing, bills that need to be paid and the differences of opinion on how my son should be raised. Oh and by the way, the topic of having children of our own is now no longer up for discussion.

Maybe this is the way a marriage is supposed to be. As I sit here now, I feel pretty foolish that I ever believed in fairytales at all. Maybe marriage is simply a life with monotony, routine and loneliness masked by edges of small joys and triumphs every now and then. Maybe it’s simply an institution made up of nothing more than a comfortable kind of love surrounded by compromises, sacrifices and a vow to stick it out together, through thick and through thin. Maybe I fantasized so much about what I thought my marriage would be like instead of focusing on what marriage truly is like.  Although I do not regret marrying my husband, I now no longer know why I did. Maybe things would have stayed more the same if we hadn’t. Maybe I would still be able to catch a glimpse of the man that I fell in love with. I think he is still in there and I long for nothing more than to find him again. But in the meantime, I, the foolish princess is taking off my crown and building a big, safe moat around myself.

To Mattie

My dearest Mattie,

First and foremost, I love you. Not just like the regular “I love you” but the kind that you will only understand when you see the sight of your own child. It is the kind of love that melds into every fiber of your being, every nook and cranny of your heart, body and soul. It is indescribable, really. But I wanted to take the time to share a few of my thoughts with you as you enter the world of middle school and high school. It’s tough, kid. It always has been and always will be. Hopefully my words will help.

1. Always, always be kind to others. You don’t know when you will need their kindness in return.
2. It’s okay to wear your heart on your sleeve. Just remember to take your head with you.
3. Follow Your Bliss. Find the one thing you love and have passion for and then go and do that. With all of your heart.
4. If you are being bullied. Tell me. Tell someone. Don’t suffer in silence.
5. If you see someone being bullied. Do something. Tell someone. Otherwise you are no better than the bully.
6. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Never. Ever.
7. Tomorrow will always come and usually with the light of day, you gain perspective on an otherwise hopeless situation.
8. Nothing and I mean NOTHING you could do would ever make me stop loving you.
9. Be kind to your elders. Listen to what they have to say. They know our history better than any book could provide you.
10. Hold close to the friends that ground you. One day you will understand how valuable they are.
11. Dismiss harsh comments said to you. More often than not, they have nothing to do with you and everything to do with the person saying them.
12. Confidently chase your dreams. Be aggressive. But don’t be greedy.
13. Stay a kid as long as you can. Being an adult will come soon enough and trust me, it’s not always what’s its cracked up to be.
14. Keep it simple.
15. Run and play as hard as you can now. One day when you are older you will understand how hard it is for me to always keep up with you.
16. Smile. Everyday.
17. Study Hard. Not just in school, but in life. Being book smart is valuable but so is having common sense and street smarts.
18. Hold on to your beliefs and values. It’s the one thing in this world no one can take away from you.
19. If a friend is trying to get you to do anything that you know is wrong, they are not your friend.
20. As far as girlfriends and sex go. Wait as long as possible. Once you venture down that path, you can never come back. Trust me on this one. It complicates everything.
21. Laugh. Everyday.
22. If you are sorry, say so.
23. If you love someone, tell them.
24. If you need to cry, cry. Showing emotion does not make you less of a man.
25. If you make a mistake, do your best to correct it.
26. If you hurt someone, take immediate steps to heal it.
27. Surround yourself with people that make you feel good about yourself. Dismiss those that don’t.
28. Remember that it is more honorable to fail than to cheat.
29. Be creative. In whatever way you can.
30. It is okay to take when you are in need, but always find a way to give back more than you take.
31. Be Happy. You only get one life. Make it worthwhile.

Well, my son, I know there are probably a million other things I could say; a million other tidbits of advice I could offer but I know that you will do your best to find your own way, to learn in your own time. Know that as you grow, and become the person you are meant to be, I will always be here for you. Always and forever. You are my guiding star and the truest love of my life. Be well, my son. Have a wonderful and safe journey. I love you.

Love Mom

Arithmomania

After yet another sleepless night, a certain question needs to be asked…are there any other slightly obsessive compulsive people out there whose very compulsion keeps them from sleep? I do not have OCD in the truest sense. I don’t wash my hands a thousand times a day. I don’t constantly check for locked doors or light switches. I am not a germaphobe. I do not obsessively clean my house although I am sure my husband would be greatly appreciative if I had such an affliction. Unfortunately, I have a kind of compulsion which really isn’t good for much of anything. I am a counter. Yes, that’s right, a counter. I count my steps from point A to point B wherever that may be. I count objects in my house if I feel there is a need. I count in my head, randomly. At times I have no idea what in fact, I am counting but nevertheless, I do. I will count to 1000 in my head and when I get to the point where I feel I have counted enough, I simply begin again. Maybe the next time I will count to 100, 10 times or count to 10, 100 times. I also know there are exactly 506 ceramic tiles in my bathroom. I know there are exactly 156 books placed not so neatly, on my bookshelves. I know there are exactly 93 steps between my two buildings at work. It is these random acts of counting that are simply part of my world, everyday.

I did not know until today, when I looked it up in Wikipedia, that my disorder actually bears an official name. Arithmomania. It sounds like a fancy term that would make me excel in the study of mathematics. However, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It is this very act of counting that hinders my sleep. It is not the only culprit of my insomnia because as I have previously expressed, my brain just never shuts down. It is simply another puzzle piece to my sleep deprivation. Many people have nightly routines; practices that help calm them before they drift off into never Neverland. I share in some of these practices. I get in my pajamas, brush my teeth, get my stuffed monkey, fluff my favorite pillow and lie down. This is truly where my pleasant experience ends. When a “normal” and I use the term loosely, person cannot sleep, they clear their minds or go to their happy place and inevitably, sleep will come. Well, not for me. I have even resorted to counting sheep. One would think that my lunacy would actually benefit me in this instance. Wrong again. This is where my overactive, never shutting down, never shutting up brain comes in. I cannot not count the sheep because to me, that would be crazy. However my brain takes it one step further and wanders to other sheep associated thoughts. Such as….why does one even count sheep? It’s not the counting part that stumps me but the sheep part. I mean why not dogs, or cats or my favorite, the spider monkey. Really. What’s not to love about a spider monkey?  And then, for some unknown reason, I think of the nursery rhyme, Hey Diddle Diddle. The line “the cow jumped over the moon” hurdles to the forefront of my mind and I picture sheep jumping over the moon which is simply more ridiculous to me than cows jumping over it.  

I am unsure of when this compulsion began. I cannot recall it from my childhood so I am left to assume I developed it as an adult. It wasn’t as if I woke up one day and decided it was time to count everything around me. It’s just been there. It has never really bothered me before and I am not totally convinced that it bothers me now. However, the first time I mentioned this to my doctor, he sat back in his chair and simply said, “Interesting”. Then my brain went full throttle. Is that interesting, good or interesting, bad? Does it mean I have finally gone crazy? Does it mean I have been susceptible to crazy all along and it’s finally caught up with me? Do I just have an affinity for numbers? Will it stunt my personal growth? Will it hold me back in any way? I truly do not know. I suppose my real question of the day is this: am I doomed to live a life of seemingly random, useless counting practices or is there a cure for me? Maybe, as I say all the time: it is what it is. Maybe there is no rhyme or reason to it all. Maybe there doesn’t have to be. Maybe there is no harm in it at all. Or maybe, just maybe I am perfectly sane, simply counting my way through this insane world.

Reason Enough

It seems like just yesterday I was dropping Mattie off at my mother’s house in an infant carrier. I would lug him, along with a massive diaper bag, up the fifteen or so stairs that I had become all too familiar with. And as I travel those same stairs today, only to have Matt running on his own two feet, beating me to the top, I can’t help but wonder….where in the world did the time go? How did he grow up so fast and where was I when it happened?

He stands before me now, a handsome young man, only a few inches shorter than I. Our conversations no longer consist of crayons and matchbox cars but rather what college he dreams of attending, what he wants to do with his life and if I think he is smart enough or talented enough to get a scholarship. I search his eyes trying to find a glimmer of that little boy that I once knew. But at 12 years old, all his baby fat has turned to lean muscle….the toothless grin I once loved has been replaced with adult teeth that will soon need braces and his dream of marrying his mommy has been replaced with dreams of becoming a professional ball player. I’ve noticed that this progression of change in him have produced significant changes in me. The me that once longed for him to grow up has been replaced with wanting to turn back the hands of time. I long for the days when he would call me mommy, crawl up on my lap and snuggle with me. He would fall asleep in my arms and I would think to myself what did I ever do in my life to deserve this amazing child? I remember it all like it was yesterday and yet the view becomes blurred with each passing day. He grows a bit more and becomes less of an extension of me and more of an individual with his own mind and his own views of the world. And although part of me is saddened by these changes, I know it is just simply a part of life.

Part of me feels better because I have been there with my son at each and every milestone; every “first” of his. I was there for each first day of school. I was there for each and every birthday. I was there for his first haircut, his first tooth falling out, his first bad grade, his first scraped knee, and even his first broken heart. I have been careful to miss nothing and yet I feel as if I have missed so much. I guess part of my anxiety is that I don’t have another child trailing behind him. He is all I have and I suppose my fear is that in having only one child, did I somehow miss the boat on doing it different, doing it better?

Most people I know have been blessed with more than one child and with that I think a parent learns more, grows more and evolves in a way that single child parents may not. But mostly, I think these parents get a second chance to fix any mistakes they might have made along the way. I do not have this luxury. It isn’t that I didn’t want more children. It simply didn’t seem to be in the cards for me. So when I look at my son, I understand the miracle I was given but I also see the mistakes I have made. I can only pray that over time these in discretions will take care of themselves; that these scars, however small or insignificant, will fade from his consciousness. I, like every other parent want to get things right, the first time. But you simply never know when your first time may be your only time. I speak a lot about mistakes and “wish I could have/would have done it different” but don’t misunderstand. I am mostly proud of the job I have done despite my ever changing circumstances. My child is a lot like me…sensitive in nature, hopelessly optimistic about the world and yet weighted with a certain sadness that perhaps only he and I can understand. But it is a sadness marked with hope…the kind of hope that says no matter what happens in this life, we will be okay. It is a look between us, a gesture, and a silence that lets us know that we are part of the same mold, the same makeup; that we are on the same page. So as I watch him grow and the fear of losing him to an adult world that I don’t yet understand sets in, I am comforted by the belief that he will be just fine. He will face this life with the same strength and resilience that I have passed on to him and he will brave forth with my spirit, his impenetrable will and a faith in something that is larger than us both. With a quick smile from him as he runs pass me to the top of the stairs, I am reminded of why I was blessed with this one, beautiful, miraculous, perfect child. God simply knew we were meant for each other and that is reason enough for me.