So, I do his laundry and hang his fire truck shirt in his closet and make his bed and hold his hand when we cross the street and bring the right snacks and remember sunscreen and make doctors’ appointments and dutifully attend parent-teacher conferences. I sit on the floor playing magnatiles, pretending I am not watching his face, memorizing his expressions, falling in love with the way his eyebrows furrow and the corner of his mouth moves. So, I pack his lunch and straighten my face when he asks, “What’s wrong, mama?” and camouflage my fear behind affection. I hold his heart in my memory, the first patter of knowing him. He does not see that I also rage and mourn and bargain and beg and twist my shirt in the school parking lot. What was the most fun part of school? I hope you have sweet dreams. He will roll his eyes and sigh dramatically, and I will know I have been a mother because he will be able to recite my own love back to me. One day, it will annoy or embarrass him that I say the same things over and over again. My only goal is to become what I avoided for so long: safe and predictable and soft and cheerful and steadfast. ![]() I have given over years to the kindness of ritual: the certainty of bedtime and the ease of each morning, following the same structure. Teaching him how to eat and dress himself and write his name. I spent so long wishing him into the world, sharing my body, helping him open his eyes. He cannot imagine the fear in what I cannot guarantee. There are promises-ones he cannot imagine. I am holding it together with both hands and most of my teeth, willing it to last. How precarious it all is: my promises and his tiny body. There are machinations in the world grinding against my promise-keeping that haunt my dreams. What could be better than keeping a promise to your child? He cannot fathom what other promises could be better than this. These are the promises he asks me to make, and I make them readily, happily. This weekend, he wants to go to the station and sit and watch the trains. He loves the way the automatic tracks pull the car along, the way the water splashes the car like a drumbeat, but somehow we never get wet. So, I pack the snacks and tuck them into my bag and he shrieks with delight as we drive through it. I promised him that after school today he can eat his snacks in the car and that we’ll take the car to the drive-through car wash. Before he goes, I hug him and tell him I love him with my whole heart. I cradle the bento with his favorite orange cloth napkin.Įvery parent at school drop-off is hollow-eyed, every hug a bit too long, and our babies squirm out of our arms and into their classrooms where, my son tells me, he will be working on his letters today with his little chalkboard. Leftover sweet potato fries and rice and paneer and watermelon for dessert, and his favorite spoon, and his brand new fire truck water bottle. He would want me to tell you what’s inside today. Inside the mermaid lunch bag is his bento box. I nurse sick-days with blue Pedialyte and penguin videos and a new coloring book. We celebrate birthdays with little red velvet cupcakes and trips to the museum. We do the laundry, we eat oatmeal for breakfast, we pack lunches and make lists and smooth cowlicks and buy soap. This is what we do to pretend things are normal, to build a façade of okay-ness. He probably wanted the one with the bulldozer, but it was in the laundry. The way you need to hold a washcloth over his eyes when you wash his hair.ĭo you understand? They won’t be able to ask me about those things, so I have to memorize his motorcycle tee shirt. The way he holds his stuffed fox to his face when he sleeps. The weight of his body against mine when it’s windy like it was this morning and his muscles tense against it and the little sound he makes to ward off the chill. Like I’ve memorized a thousand things: his hand in mine and the cowrie shell curve of his ear. Like I’ve memorized his laugh and the way his hair smells when he’s still dreamy and sticky from a nap. I memorize this in case I need to tell you later. ![]() I would pull him back inside my skin if I could. I smooth his hair with its perfect and plentiful cowlicks, and he bats my hand away. I pinch it to his nose and squinch my face and we both laugh. I velcro his brown shoes extra tight, I adjust his green mask. The one with mermaids, so he and his best friend can have matching lunch bags. Standing at the counter, I carefully pack his lunch bag. Today, my son wears his motorcycle tee shirt to school with teal pants and a blue backpack with cars and trucks all over it and red socks with flamingos.
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