It’s been almost 17 (in 3 weeks) years since I became a mother. I remember that glorious Thursday morning in May, right before Mother’s Day, when I first got to hold my son (mind you after a full day of unmedicated labor and a “give me all the drugs” decision for a C-section deep into the night). He entered the world at 2:27 am in quite a relaxed state (evidenced by both of his arms behind his head, and, thus, the necessity for the mentioned C-section – anybody else tried to push an opened umbrella out?).
And since his first breath, the push for independence and a constant authority challenge has never stopped: the poor nurse who tried to take his hand and foot prints after birth was covered in ink, as told by my mom, at only 30 minutes old, he was fighting her that hard; that “burrito style” swaddling never really worked for us – he’d let us swaddle him but only below his waist, arms had to be free to roam around; for the same token – would not sit in a play pan under any circumstances, too restrictive, but a laundry basket was OK (I have pictures to prove it); and stories too – about broken night table lamps, fingers stuck in key holes, head in a backyard fence, toys literary annihilated… So you get the picture.
But he is my miracle, the one that I get to experience over and over again every single day. And, yes, I’ve been walking right behind him all these years, not letting him fall, not even letting him feel the need that he has to lean back, I’m always there. Yet now, at the brink of his impending adulthood, facing college next year, I’ve been struggling to think how far should I step back but also knowing that I absolutely must, so he can fall once in a while or feel the urge to ask for that help.
One of the most blissful and the most fearful experiences at the same time – motherhood – the love of having and the love of letting go…
M is for motherhood, for anything mini, and for making this recipe
Mini Fruit Pies with Almond Whipped Cream