I was given a new identity.
It didn't stick immediately, because no one called me by my new name right away, and if they did, they said it in such a way that you could hear the quotation marks surrounding it, like when you first get married and someone calls you "Mrs."
After years of trying, and months of waiting, we had a little baby boy.
And he had parents.
My husband and I.
That was us.
I was his Mom.
It took me a long time to grow into my new self - sometimes, I still feel like I haven't got my arm completely through my sleeve. But there is no shaking it off, because, well, he talks now, a lot, and can yell my name when he needs help: "MOM!"
That's me. That's who I am.
He can do so much on his own now - not like in the beginning. He can walk and talk and get dressed by himself (though he still begs for my help), and makes friends and does homework, and operates in the world without me hovering nearby for a full six hours. Yikes.
You'd think that this identity of mine might loosen up a bit, with that freedom, but it doesn't. It wraps itself tighter around me, and I'm realizing, seven years in, that this is me, now, for life.
Hopefully, I won't mess it up too much. Just enough that he'll have stories to tell, and something to gripe to his friends about.
Oh, and that seven year old? He is full of light, and dark and music.
And he is my son.
A Pair of Watermelon Salads
1 week ago