The Day He Came

I don’t remember it the way I should; the way I assume other mothers remember it. The space it once occupied in my mind has become crowded, made small by other things. But I know it was both an end and a beginning, and it had everything to do with the baby in my arms.  

To be honest, I have found that I do not remember many things in the same way other people do — in long wieldy facts they can pull out and recount on a whim like flipping through a book they know backwards and forwards. When I hear their stories, I am gathered in and jealous. Details for me are fickle and hide at the most inopportune times. My memories come in emotions riding the backs of the minute that produced them, quick and forceful. I am transported, often against my will, by smells and feelings and the locations where they first introduced themselves to me.

Like clockwork, each time I take exit 47B off Highway 75, I remember the song that was playing the last time I visited my dad before he passed away from cancer. Every time I pass by the tree swing near the lake down the street, I see my daughter, her toddler tummy trotting out in front of her, wind throwing her hair back, as she chases after ducks she is never going to reach. I hear the ghost of her deep belly laugh trailing behind her; the one long faded, replaced by the measured responses of a teenage girl on the verge of womanhood. And when I step into an old grocery store, I find myself fifteen again, wandering the aisles of the Kmart, during a summer with my grandparents. For just a second, we are talking of school in the fall and grilled cheese for dinner and whether we have time for a dip in their pool before the sun sets. Closing my eyes, I breathe in deep and try so very hard to slow it all down and take in the details I lost along the way — to see their faces young. To remember them as they once were.  

I was twenty-seven when my son was born, not a young mother by any means. But I don’t think you have to be young to be overwhelmed by holding your child for the first time. Terrified, I internally questioned the wisdom of the nurses that let us walk out of the building with this small wrinkly creature in a blue and red plaid baby carrier. Of course, Noah was not as little as most newborns. Born a couple of weeks early, he arrived on the cusp of ten pounds and already too big for the newborn diapers the hospital tried to place on him. The dainty blue and pink cap that seems to be a standard in maternity wards wouldn’t stay on. Every time we placed it over the wisps of sandy blond hair, scooting the edges down carefully to the tops of his ears, it would just pop back up and off again. He smelled of baby powder and fresh laundry and something magical I have never been able to put my finger on. 

Somehow, though, we made that first drive home with him so tiny in the backseat thinking that our lives were just going to move on the way they always had. But how wrong we were. Our sun had changed. We could not rotate around our own schedules and whims as we once did. Instead, feedings and naps were the glue piecing our moments together along with anticipation of first words, first steps, and dreams of futures our son may take. We no longer walked and breathed only for ourselves. It was hard and tiring—and wonderful.  

What I was most shocked by, though, was the love I had for this little boy with sticky hands and eyes the color of my father’s. I had a wonderful childhood with parents that were about as close to perfect as humans can get. I loved them dearly and I loved my husband. But, with my son I felt truly unconditional love for the first time. In all my other relationships, I must admit, there were expectations weaved into my love. Love was something handed out carefully and only to people who would treat it gently and return to me the same. Never someone that opened myself easily, I metered out my affections. It felt safer. Looking at him, though, there were no expectations. He could hurt me and break my heart. In fact, I was certain he would, and that I would let him. He could reject me, dismiss my advice, and even turn out to be someone that I did not like, I suppose. But I knew that, no matter what, I would always love him. 

There’s a poem by E. E. Cummings that feels to me like an old sweatshirt fitting just right as you smooth it gently over your head, unexpectedly easy in the way words of comfort sometimes come to us unbidden at the perfect moment. In it he speaks to an unnamed love of the idea that wherever he goes and whatever he does, this love is there. What is sometimes so difficult to live through and handle when we are alone does not worry him, because he is never alone. He is no longer one, but two because he carries their heart within his own. Of course, he is speaking of romantic love, but for me, this was about my son and that moment when I heard his heart beat for the very first time. My life suddenly split into two, with a before and an after. My center changed and the innermost part of me shifted to bring him in. In a cramped little sonogram room, only eight weeks along, we had no idea yet that he would be an almost exact replica of his dad or that he would share my love for movies, hiking, and everything sarcastic. We couldn’t tell then that he was going to struggle with feeling like he didn’t fit in at school or that he would be such a fierce athlete, not giving up until he was able to dunk a basketball from directly under the net. We had no clue that he would be this enthralling blend of strength and boldness wrapped in bouts of silent self-doubt and visits with depression. That day we knew nothing more than the sound his heart made as it beat in rhythm with mine, but that was enough. 

The heart is a powerful thing. It signals life and decides when life is over. We talk of getting to “the heart of the matter” and, when we feel loss so great that we aren’t sure we can survive the weight of it, we say our heart is broken. In the thrill of adventure, we find our heart racing and when we sense those first tendrils of attraction for someone, our heart skips a beat. But a heart beating in tune with your own—that is a gift that changes you. 

When he was in fourth grade Noah’s school had a poetry night. Students shared pieces they had developed in class before the grinning faces of their proud parents. The twist in the night was that parents were given the opportunity to share a poem as well; one with their child in mind. I chose that poem by E. E. Cummings, [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in].  

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in 

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere 

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done 

by only me is your doing,my darling) 

i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want 

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) 

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant 

and whatever a sun will always sing is you 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows 

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud 

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows 

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) 

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart 

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)  

Looking at his face that night in the school auditorium as he sat small in the seat before me, I hoped he would understand what I was trying to say. That he was my true beginning. And that no matter where he went (because he was meant to leave me one day) I would forever be with him. Parenthood and childhood share the same milestones: first step, first day of school, first date, getting a driver’s license, high school graduation, turning eighteen, leaving home. The only difference is perspective. Those experiences were once our own, but now we watch as our children live them out — cheering them on, encouraging them in facing mistakes, holding them through pain, trying desperately to keep our own failings from getting in their way. It isn’t diapers and first words. It isn’t basketball practices and homework. It isn’t girlfriends and video game time limits. It is a series of firsts and lasts that knock you over as they walk in the door and sneak back out again when you are busy doing something else. It’s happiness sitting parallel with sadness, both running you in circles like that old rickety roller coaster you weren’t sure you would survive in middle school. You just hold on, screaming and laughing, your face turned towards the one beside you in pure abandon, hearts pounding in unison.  

I know full well the feeling of standing in line, gazing up at the first drop of the ride towering before you, watching the daring ones in line ahead of you strap on their seat belts seconds before that buzzer sounds. Even now, I can feel the turning that happens inside — that awkward mix of butterflies and the remains of lunch causing you to wonder if you should turn back and try again another day. But then I see him beside me, now a man, and I think how lucky I am he came. And I know that this ride, of all the ones I have ridden, is one I will never regret.