This Big Boy

I’ve never liked kids that much. Before you think I’m mean, let me say that I didn’t hate them either. I just never especially craved being around kids. Elementary teacher was far down the list of possible careers for me. Heck, it wasn’t even on my list. And being a mom wasn’t near the list.

But, then I got pregnant. And, I panicked. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted kids. I wondered what was going on in my belly. Was that little thing growing? Was its heart beating? Did it have hair?

I soon learned about the heart beating part. It wasn’t. That’s what the ultrasound technician told me as I lay naked from the waist down on a cold table.

Days later I hallucinated while coming out of general anesthesia after an emergency dilation and curettage. I saw a little boy dribbling a basketball, running around, a flash of blond hair in the sun. The little boy and a man, his father, hold their hands up, measuring to see whose was biggest. Then, the little boy threw two scrawny arms around the man’s neck as the man lifted him closer to the hoop. The boy tossed the ball inside.

I tried to shake off this hallucination in the next few days. The endless supply of Vicodin didn’t help. I kept seeing flashes of a blond hair on a little boy’s head.

***

I’m a mom now, and I love my kids. I still don’t like other kids that much, but mine? They’re the best kids ever. We were outside a couple weeks ago, and I noticed my 5 year old, how grown up he looks. I thought, I can’t believe this big boy is my son.

I felt a strange melancholy in my heart, not regret for the past or a desire to keep my kids little forever. But, there was a sadness–a realization that each moment takes a touch of his innocence. He learns a little more about life, about death, and about all the beautiful, horrible things in between. Don’t get me wrong. I want my kids to grow up, but there’s a part of me, the mom part I suppose, that wants to shelter them and protect their childhood for as long as I can.

I saw him crack his irresistible smile, and I grabbed my iPhone to record the moment. I took two photos, and then he was off, mounting his scooter and heading down the sidewalk, yelling, “Mommy, watch this,” as he went faster and faster. I turned to the car where I had been cleaning out my trunk. I shook bits of bunny-shaped cheddar crackers off the mats, tossed empty water bottles into the recycle bin, and piled toys into my grocery bags. Then, I heard a thud, a scream, two cracks, and another scream.

Dalton hit the pavement hard after riding his scooter way too quickly into the uneven sidewalk lip. The two cracks? Both unprotected knees slamming into the pavement. He was crying, and I was there at his side quickly, carrying him to the car, as I wondered how crowded it was at the children’s ER. I sat him in the trunk of my car, his lanky legs hanging down the side, his tears burning his face red. I looked at each knee. Both seemed a bit red, but nothing looked too gnarly. I told him to wait for a second until he felt better, and I wanted to monitor to make sure he hadn’t really cracked anything. He looked at me, and I took a few more photos. Soon, he was back on the scooter, zipping down the sidewalk.

***

A couple days after the scooter crash, I plugged my iPhone into my computer and started transferring my data. I had forgotten about those photos, and as I saw them flash on the screen, I saw this big boy, unafraid and happy to face life.