A photo on social media yesterday of an acquaintance and her new baby reminded me of my aunt Della and the babies she lost before adopting her three children.  Then I thought about the several miscarriages which I experienced, including one early in my pregnancy with my son.  Losing his twin saddened me; though the boy whom I got lifts my heart.

Patrick entered the world laughing, 7 pounds 10 ounces despite being six weeks early.  Though we’ve shared both good times and rough days, I would not have traded my parenting of him for anything.  A mother’s love for her son has no compare.  This love neither threatens nor mirrors any other.  Its uniqueness enhances every other lovely feeling that I have for any one or anything.  My mother’s affection for my child augments my capacity for all other affection.

We talked on the phone yesterday about various mundane aspects of each of our lives.  I’m proud of his political activism, his financial responsibility, and his gentle spirit.  That I produced such an accepting soul astounds me.  I cannot say he is without judgment.  But he applies a keen refinement when he takes measure of the situations and people in his world.  He gives chances. He studies with a critical and calm eye.  He discards superficial requirements and allows for individual differences in ways that leave me breathless.

If he reads this entry, he will message me and say, with rueful tone that will carry through even in virtual format, Well, thanks, Mom; but you really shouldn’t have.  I will smile and think:  Yes, I should — even allowing for the should-less message of non-violent communication.  The best of me dwells in Patrick’s heart.  Every step that I have taken in sixty-one (and a half) years derives its sureness from the knowledge that whatever else I have done in my life, I got this one right.  Say that I’ve failed a half-dozen lovers.  Pull up my name from the annals of history and check off my plethora of losses against my paltry sum of wins.  Like he who submitted to the gentle kiss of Jenny*, note my failings all you like.  But give me this boy as the best result of my feeble efforts, although I only deserve partial credit for what he has made of himself.

I don’t know what it might have been like to have parented two such beings.  But I’m grateful for my littlest angel; he has grown into a man and taken flight.  I have no complaint.

It’s the ninth day of the thirty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

 

P.S.: Congratulations to Caitlin Varenhorst Dresser and Eric Dresser for the birth of their son Jackson.

 

*JENNY KISSED ME — by Leigh Hunt

Jenny kissed me when we met,
jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief, who loves to get
sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
say that health and wealth
have missed me.
Say I’m growing old, but add:
Jenny kissed me.