It is a beautiful autumn day. I finish my coffee, and tell the Boy that it is time to take the dog for a walk. I pull on my sneakers, he slips on his "slip-ons" as he calls them. I wind a scarf around my neck, and he wiggles into his hoodie. Leash, dog, and off we go.
The Boy holds the leash today, and he is kicking leaves. Today is Picture Day at school, and he tried to put on his suit this morning. I convinced him that just the white shirt and vest will work if he adds pants without holes in the knee. He's a handsome boy, and I suggest to him that zipping his hoodie will keep him warmer than clutching it shut. We walk along.
He holds my hand, and never stops talking. He points out spider webs, fallen nuts, and pretty clouds. The dog follows as best she can, all the while sniffing and stopping to deposit her own calling card. I admonish the Boy that watching her poop is kinda gross, and he turns aside. He comments on the houses in the neighborhood, and asks me if I remember the huge slug we saw last week, and wonders if it might still be there. I laugh, delighted, and suggest that, since several days have passed, rain has fallen, and birds would have noticed him by now, I bet the slug is long gone.
I am right, and we continue on. He loves looking down into a ravine to which a homeowner has added a little landscaping bridge. He calls my attention to flowers, and I think about what an interesting boy he is, and how much I enjoy his company now. I really cannot believe he is already six. And, as I often do, I think about what I remember at his age.
Disaster strikes. At Christmas, when I was six, my mother sent my brother and I off for our visitation with my dad. He dropped us off at school at the end of the break, and no one came to pick us up that evening. My mother had run away. January 4, 1982. At my son's age, I only had three months more with my mother.
I look at my son, who is still holding my hand and attempting to get the dog to stop digging in a mulch pile, and I cannot imagine life without him. And I wonder how she could have left me just when I was getting to be interesting.
Confession. I hate babies. They are boring. They are annoying. All they do is cry and eat and shit, sometimes all at once. I loved my son when he was a baby, but in a grim way perhaps. It was my duty, my responsibility, and I approached the task of motherhood vowing to do it well. I didn't relax into being a mother for months, and it was years before I felt confidence in that role.
Years have passed, and I have this fun little guy, who thinks zombies are hilarious, loves books and Legos, and correctly uses three syllable words. He makes interesting leaps of logic in his reasoning, which while sometimes less-than-accurate, are entertaining. He is sweet, loves holding my hand, and expects an intelligent answer when he asks about clouds or leaves or mechanical engineering.
I wrap my arm around him as we walk. He is still trying to control the dog, who is hot on the trail of some remarkable scent. I have a feeling that the next few months will be a countdown of sorts for me, that I will be cramming in all sorts of experiences into the Boy's life, as I continue to over-compensate for the mother who didn't want me. I will fight off tears as I mourn what I didn't get to do with her, but will damn well make sure he gets to do with me. And when that magic deadline passes, I will know that I can maybe let myself just love the Boy for being mine, and stop projecting on to him the little girl who waited and waited for her mother to show up and take her home.
