Heavenly Mother
You will be like a child that is nursed by its mother. I will comfort you as a mother comforts her child. Isaiah 66:12-13
Every morning we sit here on the couch, or in bed, or, well, even in the middle of a coffee shop, for this intimate time together. (Sometimes it embarrasses other people, but it’s only natural. We can be discreet, though, so we don’t scare anyone off—especially those who haven’t been in this kind of relationship before.)
It’s clear that you need this: it’s your sustenance and succor. That much is obvious. But, I need it too. I fill up—to overflowing most the time. It’s not really something I can control. Just being around you, hearing your voice, makes it well up in me. Managing the rhythm can feel like work; our timing isn’t always the same. But, mostly I treasure the experience.
You’re so small. And your skin, it amazes me. I understand that I created it, but I’m still awed by the tiny, total creature you turned out to be. Something so small, I can comprehend; but the fullness of your being, your animation is astounding. Someday when you’re your brother’s age, we’ll have some battles over that, but, even in the midst of those tantrums, it’s difficult not to love your ability to be independent. It’s a mystery to love you exactly because you’re not me.
We have a cycle, a routine, that we dance in. Sometimes you initiate, sometimes I do. Most often it’s you; though, screaming can be a strange way to invite company. Even when you don’t have tears, I can see through to your need. And I guess I can understand what it’s like to want something so desperately that being without it makes you mad.
So, I draw you in. Sometimes you’re calm as a pond, those glossy eyes gazing at my face— or just a little to the side. Other times your fists are flailing and your cheeks are damp with the sweat of your frustration. Most often we have trouble connecting because you’re busy trying to suck on your own fingers. Then, when I hold them down, you’re really peeved—not just angry, but angry at me. But, hey kid, I can’t give what you need when you’re busy trying to stuff your own face.
There’s something else that often gets in the way. We don’t connect well when you’re focusing on, ahem, other bodily functions. Don’t get me wrong: I’m happy that you’re comfortable to come to me in that state. It’s only human. And, part of me is reassured that everything is processing the way it should. You know, the whole ‘better out than in,’ thing. That said, we really can’t get on with things until you— excuse my language—get the shit out.
The moment we do connect, though, I can feel your entire body unhinge. You stop shoving against my chest and your breathing gets deeper. Sometimes your eyes fall closed, the relief is so total. Once we connect, you remember that the flow between us is automatic, natural. It astonishes me that you forget so quickly. Just a matter of hours, most days. But, we keep trying.
The most difficult part is actually buried in your peace. Some days you relax so totally that you fall asleep. I wrestle with how to handle that. I want you to have peace, to rest in the safety and warmth of my arms—to have time to just absorb the closeness and love. But when you fall asleep, you stop eating. If I let you stay that way, you’ll starve.
So, I sigh, take a deep breath, and rustle you up a bit. Waking you up usually involves making you cold or otherwise uncomfortable—which means putting some distance between us. I keep trying to think of other ways to keep you close and engaged. (I’ve tried a whole gamut of them with your family before you.) But, discomfort seems the most reliable. I have a hard time doing it. Especially because you press your eyes closed. So, while you’re wrestling your discomfort and feeling abandoned, you can’t see that I’m sitting right next to you on the couch. Usually I have to keep my hand hovering over your chest to be sure you don’t roll off the edge.
Soon, though, you wake up enough to acknowledge your hunger and we can continue. You open those gorgeous eyes and I can see the universe in them. You rest your head in the crook of my arm and I can tell that you know—down to your core—that your needs are met. That I’m right here. Those are my favorite moments. They always seem to end too quickly. But, even when you’re done, and even when this time together is painful, I know it was worth it. I see you growing. And I’d give anything for that, even this life from my own body. There’s no question that you’re worth it.
