Being a Mom

Dear Sometimes-But-Not-Always-Elusive-Offspring,

So, now you are engaged. To a lovely girl we love as if she were our own. And someday you will have little EOs of your own.

When I was pregnant with you, I did not know whether you would be a boy or a girl. I couldn’t explain why, but I did not want to know. All I knew is that I was carrying a baby. My little miracle. And I loved you from the moment I knew you existed. I sang to you, and played the piano for you, and ate lobster for you (ok, that part was for me), and did everything I could do to make sure you were healthy.

I knew Dad wanted a boy (although he would have been happy with a girl), but at the time, I thought I wanted a girl. I believed I wouldn’t know what to do with a boy. I had heard so many stories about how boys were always getting hurt (breaking bones, getting into scraps, you know what I mean). How they were so messy. And they played with toy guns (it's true!). But I figured, having been a girl, I would know all about girls. So I made pretty little dresses in preparation.

Then you were born. A little “bundle of boy” as Dad called you. I’m not sure but that I may have had a momentary pang of … should I call it “disappointment” … at the knowledge that I was not to have my little girl after all. But if I had that feeling, it was nothing more than a fleeting pang, because I adored you totally and completely from the start. I cried when you were one day old, and then three days old and at various intervals thereafter, at first because you were no longer a physical part of me, but then because each day you were closer to leaving me. I cried because there was no Earthly way that anyone could ever love me nearly as much as I love you. I cried because I would have to go to work and leave you with a care taker. Without a second thought, I gave the little dresses I had made to a friend who had a little girl, and I went out to find the most adorable boy outfits to dress you in.

Every day brought new wonders for us all. I have such clear memories of those first three years: how you always ran to the door to meet us when we came home from work. I remember the silly faces you made. And “b’zim” was your word for anything that flew (bird, plane, butterfly, leaf). Even now, the cry of the “b’zim” bird always means spring is in the air. I remember picking up two water pistols one day and filling them up so that I could get out of the car with “pistols blazing” when you came to meet us after work one summer day (ok, moms sometimes play with toy guns, too). The Homeric battle that ensued, with you chasing me around outside the house with the big red water pistol, and me still in my business suit with the little blue one, will stay with me and make me smile forever. As will all those nights three-year-old-you made me play Patsy Cline’s “Crazy for Crying” and the Phantom of the Opera over and over when you went to bed.

I remember your first day of school, your trip to Poland, your disappointment when Hamid could not stay with us and how well you handled that. You were always a leader even in grade school. And such a clown: “Mom, what does a car do when it’s sleepy? It goes to the roadbed.” And yes, I do remember the bumps and bruises and the broken bones, the disappointments and the broken hearts (yours and others). I remember every Halloween costume you wore, every cardboard and tape creation you designed, every play I saw you in, every song I've heard you sing. Your accomplishments astound me, from your high grades, to your acting, your singing, your art, your achievement of Eagle Scout, Master’s Degree, PhD, physics as your chosen field…your kindness and sense of humor.

The hardest day of my life was the day we left you at school in Scotland and had to come home to the empty nest. But, of course, I know that is the way it should be.
I just want you to know that I am so glad that you turned out to be who you are. I love having my boy. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I hope that you and Hattie will experience the same feelings some day. Thank you for being my sometimes Elusive Offspring. I love you!

Birthday Shenanigans

My favorite husband had a birthday recently. For three months, I’ve been asking him what he would like for his birthday, but he always says: “Oh, I don’t need anything, just some time off to do the things I like to do” like fishing, golfing, hiking, you know, guy things. It seems we have reached that stage in life where, if we want something, we go out and get it.

So the day came closer and closer and finally I decided what I would do. I would buy him a really nice bottle of Scotch whisky. And some Tequila (because he’s been making margaritas to go with the yummy dinners he makes on his new grill). And then I stopped and picked up some stunning dark chocolate delights (to go with the Scotch…chocolate is fantastic with Scotch). And I made a pretty card. I said I’d take him out to dinner at my favorite, expensive French Restaurant in Old Town. IF he could get off work, that is (he’s part of a government task force on the BP oilspill so you know he’s a busy camper).

I arranged everything on his chair for him to see when he came in the door. He calls: can’t quite get away from the office. Scratch dinner out. He’ll bring home steaks to put on his new exciting grill. Great! I’ll make the shrooms and salad. Then he calls again. Nope. Doesn’t have time to grill either. He’ll bring home sushi. Wow! It’s his BD and he’s bringing home the sushi. He didn’t want me to go out and do anything because he just didn’t have any certainty about timing (queue the vision of a beautifully coifed and dressed, patient wife sitting at a stunningly set table with lit candles and fantastic dinner … souflee, maybe?... and no husband).

He then calls from the sushi restaurant. He says he’s next to the ABC store and thinks he’ll just pop in for some more Scotch and some Tequila. Why don’t you just come home, I ask. But I’m next door. Aw, don’t bother, I say, it’s your birthday. No big deal, says my husband, I’m right here. But why don’t you wait until I can come with you because I’D like to participate in choosing for once. Actually, I don’t care because I trust his judgment, but I said it really passionately, hoping he would believe I’ve been feeling left out of the process. Oh, he says, I’ll just go in and look around.

Some time later, he walks in the door, sushi bag in one hand, unmistakable black ABC bag in the other. He takes one look at his chair and says: “Oh! I see!” I told him he’s the doofiest doof I know! After I relayed this story to a colleague, he told me that what it says is that I know my husband’s likes very well. I got him something he wanted.

Happy BD, favorite husband.