Small
Packages
The start of summer. A rough year of school ended
and with its end, a path was illuminated for us both. An open-ended few months
together that I tried not to overplan. There were a few camps, some swim
lessons, playdates with friends, and the monotonies of everyday errands to
accomplish. But there would be more time this year, I told myself, to savor the
exquisite simple moments together as mother and son.
The messy crafts and treasure hunts around the
house. Telling secrets in the closet with a flashlight. Reading underneath our
favorite tree in the front. Bike rides to the “magic” cul-de-sac, where notes
from Disney characters and small trinkets just happened to appear in the trees
every now and then. Throwing rocks at our special spot at the creek. Magic
afternoons that would curve and wind the way they wanted them to, without
beginning nor end as we played and laughed and discovered each other even more
so.
Take
it in, I prepared myself. Take these moments to memory. Breath them in. Childhood is fleeting.
Make it all count.
Seven years old. God. The extra syllable makes its
way off my tongue hesitantly. Knowingly. There
is no turning back. This may be the last summer when innocence lights the
way. When magic still overpowers the stress of school and social expectations.
When my soft body is a welcomed home base. The
end is nearing. Remember these days.
Despite best laid plans, maturing attitudes and
middle-aged childhood priorities took precedence. Jadedness edged into the
picture. Grocery shopping scavenger hunts were met with boredom. Hide and seek
afternoons were exchanged for alone time in bedrooms. Sass and moodiness
dictated activities. Special excursions lost their meaning after so many times.
A tide was already shifting and we both knew it.
But, there was still perspective, and you were still
small. Born with a condition that caused slow growth, you were always smaller
than peers. Healthy, but diminutive. A tortoise and hare race amongst other children.
Despite a mature brain and precocious goals, there was still the soft down on
your naked back. Baby teeth contently intact. Tiny clothes that I could still
fold delicately while laundering. Teeny feet that fit preciously into one hand.
And with your small statue, a need for occasional help with things other seven
year olds mastered long ago. Holding your hand while stepping out of a carseat.
A little extra cheating while playing ball so you could reach better. Training
wheels in no rush to come off.
And today, that extra push on a swing. You haven’t
quite got the physical force to master it yet, despite your age and our
encouragement. I’ve never wanted to baby you. But today, you ask for that push.
I stand behind you and press my palms against your small back. You have lived
so long now, it seems, but your tiny back feels timeless - the many hours spent patting it after
feedings and lifting you out of a crib seem like yesterday. Today, despite cynicism,
you chose to dress up in a cape, a bright vestige of naïveté. And today,
despite so much independence in such a small package, you chose to be pushed. I
stand behind you and relish each gentle rock. So long ago, we’d sway back and
forth to get you to sleep as a newborn. We melded together like melting candles,
no beginning and no end to our own identity.
Today, things
are different. You are so distinctly your own person. So independent. So
mature. So wise beyond your small package of a body. But perhaps you still need
me every now and then to push you through the moments that still present a
challenge. Perhaps the closure of childhood is never a definite end but rather
a profound pendulum swing, a process of pushing you so brilliantly into the
light, and accepting you back into my arms when you need to come falling back. This. This is the moment, the motion, I will
put to memory, so I may remember how to always stand behind to catch your fall,
no matter how many summers we cross together as you grow. This.
XO :)
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