My little dude turned seven yesterday. Seven. SEVEN! That’s amazing.
There was a blizzard, just like yesterday, at the time of his birth. It snowed a lot in the days that followed, so by the time we left the hospital four days after my c-section, the world outside was super-white and hushed. It was a deafening silence, for certain.
We settled his infant carrier into the back seat – our first time ever! I closed the back door, and opened the passenger-side door, slipping inside, the way I had about a million times before. That’s where I sit.
Martin said, “You’re not going to sit in the back with him?”
I said, “I don’t think I’m that kind of mum. What’s going to happen to him? I can see the house from here. Let’s go – I’m starving.”
Looking back, my feelings about sitting in the back seat with him might be indicative of the kind of mother I was going to be. He’ll be fine… what can happen? I’m right here if he needs me…
I’m not a hoverer (which is easier when there’s no fear of physical danger) but it’s not always simple. I want him to do his best to figure things out on his own, but I want him to be comfortable, not frustrated, not injured, not sad. Finding the balance between go forth! and I’ll protect you is tricky to manage. I believe it’s a pendulum, sometimes. So far, so good, I suppose. It’s a long race, so you never know how you’re doing until you’ve reached the end.
With motherhood, you never really reach the end though, right? I’m just happy when he is. And my heart aches when I can’t fix the bad stuff. Fortunately, the ills have been few. (Still sorry about his hair though.)
My thoughtful, lovely, joyful, delightful, wonderful, beautiful boy. You’re such a cool little kid!
And I’m right here if you need me, love…