He is almost as stubborn as Sister...almost. He tries to follow her ways, much to her frustration. Her words often come out of his mouth. They love each other, hate each other, want to be together, need to be apart, mold each other, hammer each other. They are the fierce force that pulls our family in a chaotic, determined, delightful, unfettered dance.
I love them both with my whole heart. But their loves are different. Wonderfully, strangely, determinedly different. My Girl has taught me a love that is gripping and sometimes terrifying in its wild untamedness. A love that fills and hurts and hopes with a passionate pain. A love that I imagine God/dess feels for me.
My Boy has taught me a love that is free and flowing and bubbling over with laughter. A love that is unyielding and unconditional. A love that teaches me joy with abandon. A love that I imagine God/dess feels for me.
My Girl is the One who broke my heart open and showed me the intensity of a love full of pieces. She is the One who once barely connected with me but now runs to me and flings her whole body at me when I walk through the door. She is the One who tells me her hurts and her fears. She is the One who now curls up in my lap like the toddler she never was. She is the One who grasps and holds on tight and looks for me and misses me always. She is the One who makes my heart ache.
My Boy is the One who helps me to breathe with the aching pieces and tells me I am OK.
My Boy is the One who cried for me, unceasingly, before he was supposed to be old enough to know separation anxiety. He is the One who clung to me, and favored me, and adored me just for being Mama. He is the One who insists that I cuddle and read with him at night, the One who clings to me like a little octopus when he needs some comfort. He is the One who almost always refuses to let me pray out loud for him, and yet he is the One who is most likely to speak words of God to me.
A few nights ago, he said to me, completely out of the blue, "You're the perfect mom for me." And for a moment my heart stopped.
I'm not the perfect mom. Far from it. I don't play cars and transformers well, so when Daddy's around during the day, My Boy tells me to go away. I'm always trying to get him to make something with me because I like that, but he has little interest in such pursuits. I grudgingly play games of Zingo or Candy Land while simultaneously (sometimes) trying to read a book or computer screen. I walk away from dramatics and walk slowly toward hurts. I am away from home far too much and see him far too little. I am not nearly the perfect mom.
And yet, somehow, he still recognizes me as the Mom for Him. And speaks those words when I need them most. Not words that I have earned, but words that I have been given.
Grace. Gift.
Free and unyielding Love.
He is not perfect, but he is the perfect Son for me.
She is not perfect, but she is the perfect Daughter for me.
They teach me to dance.
Simply beautiful.
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