Twenty years ago today I was pregnant with you. I didn’t know it yet then, but I would in a few weeks. Carrying you and giving birth to you was so easy, at least physically. Emotionally, I don’t guess anyone is prepared for the miracle that is bringing new life into the world, of the connection that exists between parent and child. Some can’t handle it, I know; some are consumed by it, others run from it or try to minimize it. I do remember being immobilized by the vastness of it, by the enormous capacity for life and love and loss it presented. And it does still, which may be why I sometimes seem a bit stuck.There are parts of my body that were always meant to fit with parts of yours. From the moment you were first placed in the crook of my elbow to your toddler self nestled into the curve of my chest and belly, to a rough and tumble kid, my arms around you and your head of silken curls tucked under my chin as snug as you were when I carried you within. We were as one, connected and warm. Now I try to hug you, wiry and manly, your angles and lean muscles alien in their familiarity, limbs too long and strong for me to enfold. My memories of holding your little hand, chubby and delicate, of your long lashes against your round soft cheeks, are fading. Your kiss, once sloppy and moist and only for me, is dry and quick.
I see your childhood in the rearview mirror. It gets smaller by the minute, with every quick glance receding into a distance I can barely make out. It’s almost like it never happened. I don’t trust my recollections of your first tooth, first word or step, of your scent or the pitch of your laughter. I only know that even now, your safety and security and wellbeing are all that really matter to me, and I love you even more as you grow away from me and toward your own understanding of this immensity in which we all share.
Keep your love big, Babu. Time passes way too fast to waste it on the small stuff.
Posts
