I saw you, and the world came into focus for the first time. It was like the last twenty years simply didn't matter, because the existence I had before you never contained a love so thick, so heavy, so overpowering, that I took it in with ever breath.
Your birth was hard. I lost blood, you struggled for air. We looked at each other for only a moment as I lay fading on a table, being stitched and fed bags of blood while they took you away. X-rays and invasive tests and supplementation awaited you. The darkness of a sleep as deep as I'd ever known awaited me. We wouldn't see each other again for several hours. But in that moment - in that defining, perfect, beautiful moment - when everything stopped and our eyes met for the first time, I knew my world would never be the same.
 |
| Baby Intrepid and a very young Maven 2007 |
Mother. It's a word beyond words, with a meaning so deep that it can't be summed up in six letters. The transformation I felt that day - the shift in everything I used to know as truth - was profound in a way that even this writer can't put into words. But if I were to try, it was a feeling of inner completion, when I never knew I wasn't whole to to begin with until then. Miraculous, spellbinding, absolutely blindsiding.
I nursed you, slept beside you, held you while feverish, calmed your cries. I watched your dad shift from boy to man in his new responsibilities, walking you back and forth, making you smile, waking up when we did in the wee hours of the night, just to see if we needed anything. He and I grew stronger, fought less, loved more. You turned us from couple to family. You gave us a purpose, when we had spent the last three years spinning our wheels, not knowing what direction to go in.
You grew, you changed, and soon you didn't need me to stay by the bed as you drifted off, or hold your hand on the way to the park. Soon, you dropped the last syllable in "mommy", and fetched your own cereal in the morning while I slept on. Your Rescue Heroes were packed in a box, and picture books were passed on to your brothers in favour of bigger words and fewer bedtime stories read aloud.
The first day you went to preschool, I walked around like a lost soul, trying to figure out how to spend a day without you. My shadow, my darling, my sweet little boy. I felt empty without you nearby. You were - and still are - my world. But worlds evolve, and sometimes we need to figure out how to move with them.
Now you're in grade 8. You like girls, you play guitar, and your voice is changing. Your friends matter a lot, all of a sudden, but you still make time for your family. You talk about world issues, and teach me things you learned at school. I easily slip on your shoes to run outside, because your feet are bigger than mine - your hands, too. The little boy who built Lego robots will outgrow me this year. Soon, I won't be meeting your gaze without looking up.
It's both exciting and scary, watching you grow up. I love it, I fear it, I grieve who you were, and I celebrate who you're becoming.
 |
| All smiles and smirks on his 14th birthday (no idea where he gets the attitude from) |
Happy fourteenth birthday, my Intrepid little wonder. Who would I be had you not come along when you did? You grew my heart, which in turn grew my soul. I am a better woman, a stronger woman, a wiser woman because of you. You're a kind and patient big brother, a good friend to those lucky enough to consider you one, and a wonderful human being.
But, most importantly, you are my son. And I am so proud to know you.
Keep being you. Keep shining brightly. And never forget how much we love you.