I started this blog as a desperate attempt to reclaim something of myself…something I thought left me when my son was born. When I look back, though, I realize it was already halfway gone long before one cell split into two, and 4 and a billion. I had already split into a billion pieces myself. I was already preparing to be a mother.
The day my son came crashing through me, it was like a paradigm shift. I felt power from a source I had never truly felt before. Primal, VERY female, overwhelming. My body, an incubator. My breasts, dinner plates. My skin, comfort. My hair, ropes to be climbed into this grown up world. My ears, forever listening to his every need. My mouth, whispering…teaching…kissing.
The thing I thought I lost was poetry, but what I have realized is…I didn’t. I gave birth to him, and he flits around me every day…wild and rambunctious one moment, and heartburstingly sweet the next. He learns and grows with and without me because he is his own entity. He is becoming, and I am here to help him do so.
“Mommy…you can touch the fingernail moon if you want to, but you’d better not touch the full moon because it might pop and then there will be a BIG rainstorm!!”
While scientifically inaccurate, the above statement tells me that everything will be ok. That the poetry was supposed to begin with me, and end with him.
And I am very ok with that.