My boy

My boy gave me a beautiful card, with a heartfilled message. His heart is good and gentle to me year 'round (mostly). We went out for lunch together and talked. His bedroom is now my office, and we sat in the transformed room together. He sat in my "invisible chair" and mentioned that this used to be his room. I looked around the room, and enjoyed my mental photo album.

This room used to be a nursery. I pictured the first time I changed his diaper when we brought him home from the hospital. I was inexperienced, clumsy, and unsure. Anthony and my mom stood at my left and right, each looking over my shoulder.

I looked at the floor, because in those days, I didn't use a changing table or the crib. I liked to change his diaper on the floor. I pictured a naked baby crawling away from me, squealing and giggling at the fresh breeze on his behind.

I pictured a happy, smiling baby, standing in the same crib, waiting for his mother to lift him out.

I saw the race car bed and a little boy sleeping in it.

I saw twin beds, with Jake in one and me in the other. I had more difficult detachment issues than he did.

I saw clothes, toys, and miscellaneous crap everywhere. And an irritated and overwhelmed mom.

I heard the slamming door of a frustrated and angry teenager.

I saw a teenager sitting in his room, with his sketch pad, drawing and creating.

I saw a room with posters everywhere, and pin/nail holes sprinkled randomly across every wall (and the ceiling)

I saw other boys, friends, sitting in this room, sleeping on this floor.

And now, I looked at a young man, sitting across from me, with plans, dreams, and wonder-ifs running through his head.

I look at a young man who grew in me, and I have grown because of him.


I have only one person on this earth who calls me mom. His name is Jake. He's my baby. He's my boy. He's my family.