What's In A Name
My first born, Grey, turned 11 last week. He loves to read, is currently obsessed with Roblox and Greek mythology, does not care for pop or rap music, appreciates good debate, requires having the last word, hasn’t any interest in personal hygiene, and will forever have my whole heart.
Throughout my time as Grey’s mother, I have delighted in being called “Mommy”. And all this time, I’ve naively assumed he’d just hold onto the name he’s used since our beginning…
Mommy.
Life never ceases to shock us into new understanding. Even the most minor changes can cause such massive ripples. Sometimes we don’t notice. Sometimes we do.
Several days ago Grey stood filling a water glass in the kitchen. He casually called out, “Mom!” I stopped dead in my tracks—it was a name that sounded familiar, but it took a little bit of mental clearing to cut through to the realization that the “my” had been cut off. An audible fluke, I thought.
But then he called out again: “Mom!” And then again...and again. The wave of reckoning swam over me. A piercing prick to my heart, sharp and acute.
No longer “my” little boy. No longer his “my”; now just…“mom”.
Somebody please come hold my hand. I did not anticipate this grief.
With the arrival of this perplexing little human eleven years ago, I became a mother, and most everything I’ve learned about motherhood has been informed by this guy’s little birthmark in his left eye, the coyness of an endlessly inquisitive nature, his quick temper. In the beginning he was so helpless and I was so exhausted and sometimes I wished for things to be easier and although I am smart enough to understand he wouldn’t stay small forever I just did not anticipate the depth of this joyful, motherly sorrow.
Parenting is next level. You’re required at all times to steadily carry equal parts wit and wisdom while also fiercely protecting from danger and bullies and assuming immeasurable worry as your heart keeps cracking open wider and wider with an awe and a love that reveals itself infinite. The job calls for many hats to be worn and many hands to hold all the things. Still to this day I search for the instruction manual.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Kahlil Gibran
My, yes. This sweet baby boy of mine has brought to my life an abundance of delight (and several pounds of wrinkles).
May this seemingly insignificant loss be my reminder to give full attention to every single moment he’s close by, as it is now abundantly clear that time is not asking my permission. Soon he will leave this nest.
Let me be eternally grateful for the moments that were weighted with the “my”. And allow me the willingness and courage to let go of what I cannot possibly hold onto forever.
