At 4 years old
My son had to have surgery this morning and I am writing this in the waiting room. While on the way to the hospital, some major revelations occurred to me and I thought I would share them with you.
More now than ever, I am completely convinced that teenage boys are more interested in food, sleep and girls…in that order. Long gone are the days that my 17-year-old needed his mommy to kiss his boo boos away. He was cool as a cucumber in the backseat while he calmly placed his lunch order for when he woke up followed with a quick utterance that he was so tired. I was nervous enough for both of us.
I sat outside the curtain while he slipped on his gown. I stood outside while the doctor prepped him. I stood and waited patiently outside when they did the final exam. Once again, time was staring me in the face and reminding me that my little boy had turned into a man. In his stoic way, he told me to just go into the waiting room and wait. I replied by rubbing his arm which he cordially told me that I was creeping him out touching him. I smiled. It only seemed like yesterday that he would sit on my lap as I kissed away his tears. I was the only one who could make him feel better.
My mind wandered into the future and I could see if this was taking place fifteen years from now. His wife would be sitting next to him and I would be permanently placed outside of the curtain. Still loving him. You carry them. You give birth to them. You nurse them when they are sick. You tutor them for tests. You taxi them to their friends. You caterer their dinner and concierge their vacations. You are form filler outer, a laundress, a shopper, a life coach, a dictator…all in the name of love. Then one day, somebody else will surpass you up the ladder. It was in that moment that I had an epiphany. It all comes down to who is washing your underwear last that get to stand by your bedside.
I would be okay watching him being nursed by his wife. Secretly knowing that no one could or would love him more than me…because I am his mother.
