Saturday, June 30, 2012

Firsthand Paths That Lead Where I Can't Go


When Tom was little, sitting on my lap in the rocker that Jim Johnson gave us, I would hold his hand and tell him how, for just a small part of his life, his hand would fit inside mine.  

Sitting together, sunk deep into the dark blue leather rocking chair, I could hear his mind mulling over this unfathomable idea, as I explained that he would one day be so big that my hand would eventually fit in his own.  More often than not at this point we would lace fingers and continue reading his bedtime story or watch another episode of "Little Bear".

As the days of elementary school passed, every so often Tom would lift his palm to place his hand against mine in an effort to put my words to the test.  I would remind him again how one day my hand would fit inside his.  In these moments, I could see in his face the look of an explorer who was anticipating with great delight the potential of his journey, freshly embarked upon.

I can remember clearly the day when his and my hand were finally the same size.   I could see the excitement in his eyes as we lined up our palms, and I exclaimed "wait a minute, this can't be right!"  

For the next little bit, each time we would try it, I would try to crawl the top of my fingers over his, in an attempt to win some sort of five fingered thumb war.  The point at which I could no longer fake it, was sooner than I had anticipated.  As a mom, I couldn’t help reflecting back on his small hand, with fingers that had to stretch so far apart to lace through mine.

For me, the intimacy of raising a son is so multilayered.  Had I a daughter, there would be some conversations that would thread slightly more intertwined throughout life; even the mitochondria in the cells is passed from mother to daughter.  So my many nieces will carry on my sister’s cellular finger-print down through their own daughters; but as for me and my cellular pathways, with Tom as my biology's final gift, I am the last of my kind.    

It has been such a pleasure to have Tom in toe for so many years; yet in raising him I have often reflected on the unique flavor of bittersweet that a mother feels as her son begins growing away from her.

With Tom and I, it’s a theme that has been at play since day one.  Laying on a c-section table, I had been aware for several months, that my body would not let this guy into the world willingly.  Since I was a young girl, my mantra had been:  “I’m not having kids here on this planet.  I want to have my babies during the 1000 years of peace", that I had been taught in church would follow "the morning of the first resurrection.”  

I’m not sure if this was my strategic mind at play, or a deeply honest maternal instinct that felt this world to be wholly inadequate for me to hazard my child through.  So as I lay on the table in the hospital with a screen between me and my first glimpse of my son, the first I knew of new born Tom was his boisterous cry. 

At my request, his dad went over and took him from the doctor, with his strong cry continuing as he laid Tom’s head next to my face so I could see him.  I took one look, and as my arms were strapped down to the delivery table, my first motherly instinct was to rub my cheek right up against his soft, fresh face.  As soon as our faces touched, with a stroke of my face up and down his cheek, his crying immediately stopped.  I would have to say that this will continue to be the most favorite moment of my life.


An hour or so later, the first time I held him in my arms, I was shocked at how much I could feel his “boy-ness”.  Several days later I realized that the booties I had brought to the hospital to take him home in were easily only half the size of his foot.  My sister and I had a good chuckle about how big his body and aware his spirit was.  Tom was one big, happy babe who never wore newborn clothing or tiny diapers; though his big size made sleeping easily through the night natural.  So I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked when at 14 years old he was 6’1”, with broad shoulders, a big barrel chest and size 13 shoe.  

This past week as I picked up a car-full of football players from practice, Tom informed me that at 15 years, having just finished his freshman high school year, his coaches had bumped him up to the JV/Varsity team.  

As his mother watching him come into this world already evolved in so many ways, I’ve learned to exhale a lot.  I use it to “self-sooth” as my son is making his way into his life at an accelerated tempo.

So today as I was organizing some closet space and re-boxing some of his childhood art projects and photos, I found myself exhaling again as I ran across a plaster of his hand from our old times in the big blue rocker.  We took a picture of me holding it side by side with his 15 year old hand of today.  I felt such a playfully sacred appreciation for all that he is in every moment we have ever, and will ever have together.  Being the mom who sponsors this strong young man on the planet is, for me, a privilege beyond compare; not because he’s perfect, but mostly because I get to be here “firsthand” to see him grow up and away from me.  It is all really, too tender for words.

My moment with Tom today reminded me of a few lines in one of my favorite poems that speaks to a father looking at the tiny lines in his baby girl's hand.  He wrote them in contemplation of the lines in the old tradition of a palm reader, discerning the journey of a life-time held across the tiny lines in his daughter's palm, and the inner sense that she would eventually grow her own way into the world, the poem line reads:  
“...like a tiny 
folded 
map, 
each line 
a path that leads 
where I can’t go...”

I feel such an appreciation to be granted more time in these few years remaining as Tom prepares, in ways so specific for him,  to embark on a life of his own.  

My hope for him tonight is as it always has been...That he will continue to be, as he has always been, a generous soul.  A good man.  

I've said to him, almost daily since he was “little”, that I love who he is right now; along with a deep knowing that Tom will continue to make his way in the world, growing up and away from those evenings sitting together in dear Jim’s rocker, simply holding hands, too tired to go to bed. 

Poem lines from "My Daughter Asleep" by David Whyte, River Flow New & Selected Poems 1984-2007
Copyright © 1990 by David Whyte. All Rights Reserved
Many Rivers Press (www.davidwhtye.com)

1 comment:

Trudy said...

Syl, this is such a beautiful gift for Tom! It also speaks to me as a mother of sons and daughters. You are so amazing in your expressions! I love you! And baby Tom has a peculiar resemblance to an angel in heaven we both know :)