My Son's Mother

14 months, 24 days. That's how long you've been in this world, in my arms, and out of my body. You were created almost two years ago to the day, and now you're here, and it's been an honor meeting you and getting to know you, understanding you so deeply and intimately. I knew I'd be meeting someone new once you were born, but I didn't expect to meet two completely new people through your birth; you, and your mother.

For nine months, I recognized this woman. She was the same she always had been. She was a friend, a colleague, sometimes just an acquaintance, or other times an enemy, for 28 years. We'd had our ups and downs, we'd been through a lot together. Then you were born, and suddenly I didn't know her. I didn't recognize her face, her hair, her touch, I didn't know how to approach her. Even after 14 months and 24 days, I'm not sure what makes her tick.

I'll come to her with offerings, an old favorite pastime, a snack, and she'll turn it down, she doesn't recognize it. She doesn't have patience for it. She doesn't have patience for anything anymore. She has patience for you though, you've replaced it all. I look at her and wonder though, will she want those things again? Will I look at her one day and will something in both of us spark? Will she come to me as an old friend and take my hand, or will we live out our lives as strangers?

Sometimes it seems like she’s coming back, when she has a moment of quiet and a second to herself. I’ll see her start to let her guard down, sometimes she even looks at those old pastimes. I see her peeking through, then she pulls back and she’s gone again. She’s afraid.

What is she afraid of? I keep telling her it’s okay. I try to reach out. All she knows is you right now, and you need her too. She starts to reach back, then she looks back to you and she’s blank again. She’s a stranger.

They say it'll happen, she'll come back again, once the hormones are back to normal and the routine sets in. I don't know when that will be, but it's lonely in the meantime. At least I've got you. When I look at you at the right angles, I can still see glimpses of her.

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I love you, my son. I love being with you and I love spending my days as your main source of food and love. I just also lost myself along the way. How can I have a hobby if you’ll wake up any minute and need my attention again? How can I leave the house for a moment to breathe when I know you’re back inside crying for me to return? Everyone tells me it’s easy, just leave for a while and you’ll be okay without me for a few hours. I just look at you and I can’t. Physically it might be easy. But I look at you and I can see the need and the love you have, and I picture someday in the future when you don’t need me anymore. I think of that and I decide I can wait. I might find those hobbies and those interests again, I’ll probably be able to go out with friends again when you’re bigger and you decide you don’t need to be attached to me anymore. I might even be happy to do them then. But for now, you need me. And I think I can wait.