Your mama is my daughter. That won’t make sense for awhile. As intelligent as you are, you may not fully grasp that for years and perhaps it will take having a wee one of your own to even begin to understand. She wanted me to write all about you on your one-and-a-half-year birthday. I want to write about Mama.
It used to be that you would cry after 20 minutes without her. You can go longer now but awaken from a nap and she is gone? You will go from room to room with a pitiful, plaintive cry. Sometimes you will act as if you are in grave mourning and nothing will work to get you to understand that she has merely run an errand and will be back soon. You are more than just a ‘mama’s boy,’ you are my daughter’s boy.
Mama gave her all to get you into the world and you held back, strong and stubborn even before you took your first breath. I know now that you held onto one of her ribs just as resolutely as you hang onto the steering wheel of my car and refuse to budge. I watched my daughter breathe through contractions, change positions, give her absolute all in trying to push you out into our world and then ask what else could she do when you would not comply. She had waited for you for so long and even now you still make her wait. You were worth it at birth and you are worth it now.
Son, meet your Mama. She is an amazing person. I tell people that she is beautiful inside and out. It’s true. Yet, she wonders if she is doing what is right by you. She wonders what your future will be. She wonders and marvels at your progressive dancing and those laughing eyes. Mama sweetens my heart when she looks at you with such touching tenderness.
Mama will be your advocate when you need her. She will be your partner in discovering the wonderful world God has created. She will kiss your aches and soothe your fears. She will tickle you, adore you, cherish your very breath.
How do I know this?
I have already seen it!
It is fact, not fiction. I don’t have to create a scenario in which you play the protagonist, swaggering into life, “I’m Jack Ballard.” No, you are the swagger, you are the up-tilted face with my Dad’s dimpled chin, gazing with adoration at the one who bore you and beheld you. Mama has been there through tired tears and incredible smiles that lit up an already sunny day. I have felt honored to watch you two, as if I was watching a sacred scene and held my breath to contain it.
I told Mama two months ago that you were just the child she needed: strong, opinionated, funny, smart. Sometimes that is hard to believe, like back when you only took 30 minute naps day after day...after day…and I would see the dark circles under my daughter’s eyes. For whatever reason, there is a need for you to be quick and strong and funny and smart.
By the way, I had a baby 30 years ago. I got a girl who preferred my presence to all others. Tia Khelen would say, “K-E, let’s go play upstairs.” And she would reply, “I want to stay with Mama.” Your mama would stand by me while I did the dishes, pulled out the dry clothes, or swept the back steps. So I understand when you clasp her tightly even as you kick your feet in delight at my stepping up onto your porch to whisk you away from her. I understand that Mama is all you prefer--that in your world there are only two people: Mama and Not-Mama.
Even so, I do look forward to the day when you will spend the night with Pop and me. We will giggle under the covers and shine flashlights all around. Then we’ll read as many books as you select until I fall asleep reading them to you.
Someday, in the middle of teenage trauma you may say to Mama, as she said to me, “You don’t really care about me.” Perhaps she will hand you these letters she regularly writes. Letters that contain your history, a love story.
I love your mama. I love you, too. I love your daddy. Thank you, Jack, for letting me into your world and helping me rediscover what life looks like 34 inches above ground. Thank you, Daughter, for letting me into your world and helping me remember. I love observing the terrible love you share with your son, born of your body, succored intensely, valued to his very core.
It is an honor to be your mother, Katy. It is an honor to be your son’s Gram, the silver-haired one with the rectangular black face, chronicling his life in the best way I know how. Thank you. With love, Your Mama/Your Gram
P. S. to all Not-Mamas out there: I am actually Jack’s ‘Grum.’ He has made some amazing progress in speaking English instead of Mandarin Chinese. He actually speaks three languages now, if you count Southern English. He’s the only person I’ve ever heard turn the compound word ‘playground’ into four syllables. Just the other day he was at my house and he asked me, “What cul?” and pointed to a red hat in a book. I said, “Red” and he put a red block on his head and said, “Hat.” And it’s not just lions, and tigers, and bears, anymore, Jack’s added turtle, biders (they have 8 legs), ‘nakes, and an absolutely smile-making monkey imitation. Every time he comes to our house to play, he automatically gives me my favorite giraffes (how did he know?) while he digs and digs for the tiger, growling while he searches. The thing that makes me laugh lately is his, “Oh, nooooo!” with pursed lips and brows drawn downward. He will have the ‘I-think-you-are-crazy-Grum’ itty bitty smile on his face when I pretend to feed the toy animals but I have also seen him cook delicious meals for me, stirring the pots while saying, “Hot” and blowing on the ‘food’ so I won’t burn my tongue. Love it! I could go on and on, it’s a grandparent’s prerogative, but perhaps Mama wants to add a comment or two.
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