He pushes the buttons,
I give him the boundaries.
In me he has a forever ally
and a tough-tender supporter
who takes no shit
and gives her all.
As he approaches three
I cannot help but sit back and scratch my head
at how it all came to be,
how a couple who vowed childlessness came to
place a small boy at the center of their hearts,
how we've put our souls at his feet
like tiny kittens.
The other night we took out the trash and it was dark.
We stood in the driveway and he was scared,
but in his brave fashion he just took it all in,
despite the discomfort.
"The dark is beautiful and mysterious," he said.
Phonetically he said, "The Dawk is Beautifuw and Mysteeewious!"
He says a lot of things like that, big words and small cobbled-together
explanations for the parts of life I've long accepted as mundane.
Taking out the trash, walking the dark driveway.
Beautiful and mysterious.
Good God, he is amazing.
It's like he carries around a dose of wonder and just injects it into stale things
and suddenly my world is so technicolor.
I often ponder the curving path life takes
later in the evening after he's gotten out of bed twenty times
to not really use the bathroom
or just simply ask me again if I have a penis
or will I hug Giraffe one more time…
I marvel at how in love and terrified I am
being the mother of a child who ventures out into the world more and more
and how much I have to learn from his fears
and his observations….
so I watch him ride his trike next to me,
turning the corners so carefully,
listening so beautifully to my prompts...
I casually stroll with my heart in my throat
this moment is
in its vastness
and depth -
how a little boy
and my night-sky love for him
make me feel so small
and so very brave
on the groundless field of life.