Mothers: A thank you

The world is soft again. Newly born lime green leaves dance in the wind, giving vibrancy to the very air I breathe. I drink in the green, as I walk my boy to school, melancholy because he doesn't want to hold my hand. It's a bittersweet blessing, these days in which he claims his independence, his personal space, his instance of his very self. My husband and I worked parent hard to arrive at this moment, and yet all I want is to hold his hand all the way as we discuss red tulips, Pokémon cards all intermixed with deeper questions regarding friendship and trust.

He is my world and my world is walking to his future. How can these past eight years hold me hostage, keeping my heart beating at a faster pace, all-consumed by this child's bright blue eyes, his dark curly lashes. He is gorgeous, complicated. He has made me more compassionate, fierce. He draws out my best and my very worst. 

This is motherhood.

Books continue to be my nemesis this spring, I can't seen to catch the science fiction bug, preferring to read current "literature" that oozes human drama backlit sadly in Florida without a generational ship in sight. Without a book I feel slightly less than, similar to visions of my future motherhood-self wondering how I will survive when the little hugs, cuddles and quick handholds disappear completely. How does my mother bear it as she looks at me? Is she trying to capture an image of her baby from 46 years ago in the woman I am today? Do we as mothers ever stop looking for our babies? 

Under the guise of safety, I will grab his hand this Mother's Day as we slowly walk to our favourite second-hand bookstore. It is gloriously dusty with rising piles of fiction. The very hazardous leanings beg you to stay just a little longer, entice you to buy just one more book. We will meet his Dad in the park to play soccer as I sit on bench, bask in my motherhood and thank the stars for these past 8 years.