#BoyMom
“He’s here every day… to BE HERE EVERY DAY. And I can only dig that”
Yeah I know. I’m one of millions.
One of those million moms totally obsessed and stupid happy with her son.
I have a girl too. Being a #GirlMom is incredible but thats another blog.
Let’s talk about Boys. Think about yours as I talk.
My Boy loves me to the core. It’s the kind of love that makes me grin ear to ear.
He was born on a warm Tuesday night. I sat up in the delivery bed and kept repeating the same words over and over again “Little Dude, we are gonna have the MOST fun!!”.
I was totally smitten from the beginning whereas with Luna, I was driven to protect her. Being a girl all these years has lead me to the harsh understanding of what happens to girls in this world. It’s not nice.
It happens to boys too. But on that warm Tuesday night in the hospital all I could feel was the joy of discovering this LITTLE GUY.
Through my Bud I got to meet the world all over again.
I geeked out over toy trucks, the climbing of the trees, dirt, sand and every other substance I’d need to hose off of him.
He’s here every day… to BE HERE every day. And I can only dig that
It’s a world where 2 slices of pizza for a three year old is normal, and toy MTA trains are as coveted as my daughter’s Barbies.
It’s a world where his little arms hold me tighter than I ever thought I could be. His little face presses against my hip as he mutters “Mama”. His hot breath warms me through my coat and his fat cheeks make me grin.
A million times a week I take his beautiful mug in my hands and kiss him 12–15 times. I gaze into his eyes and remember how I waited for him. How I sat on the C train, feeling him shift in my belly as I stood up for my stop and whispered “Time to move Razi” or “Let’s go Bud”. In those months he earned both names.
Saying his names a hundred times a day made him my little friend. I’d talk to him like mamas do with their in-belly babies. He’s a runner, a climber and a jumper of hills, rocks, puddles, you name it. And when every ounce of stamina is spent he just just drops.
He’s here every day… to BE HERE every day. And I can only dig that.
I often wonder who he’ll marry. If he’ll marry. And pray he’ll give me grandkids. I imagine him as a 40 year old man and me as an old lady watching the news as we do together now. In my imagined 2053 he lays his head in my lap and lets me smooth the side of his cheek, putting him to sleep.
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My daughter Luna, now 13, is an independent spirit. Her eyes are already on the whole world so I know I’ll be flying to the ends of the Earth to see her. And I have to see my girl.
But my boy….I think my boy will stay with me in NYC.
I think my boy will take me grocery shopping on Sundays with that dutiful son face, full of love and patience, I didn’t understand til I held his cute, little spirit in my arms.
Inquisitive, sweet, rambunctious and MINE.
This is really just a love letter.
And not a day goes by where I don’t see a Black mother crushed by the sudden loss of her son. The high pitched scream, coming from a place of complete terror emanating from the bottom of her uprooted soul. The gash where her heart was. The bottom of Her that just fell through.
Nothing kills a woman like the destruction of her child. Nothing shuts her soul down like the erasure of a future once promised to her. Each photo becoming a gift and a wound. Looking at what was supposed to be. What once was but now never will again.
I hold my son every day and whisper my love. I think of the million Black moms that have lost their sons. And the millions of every race moms that have lost their children and pray I’m never part of that club.
I hold space for them in my heart, praying for God to ease their pain and at least let their children visit through dreams. And then I kiss the crumbs off my Bud’s cheek because crumbs taste best off a little person that loves you.
The sunlight hits his face.
And I’m reminded he’s in my care to be protected, enjoyed and guided through the world. I often speak to my ancestors through prayer.
Me — Look at him y’all….Look. At. Him
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400 years ago many of us perished in the bottom of those ships.
So every Black child I see is that wild flower that was never supposed to grow.
Black Boys
My Boy…..I’m honored to Mom you.
Momming you is a calling. A calling I don’t know I’ll ever completely grasp the depth of. But sometimes you just have to do the work.
I suspect our family’s continuance is the reason I love him so hard. If he could see the ancestors in a line, stretching way back through time, they would reach their arms out to me and say “Keep going”
“Keep loving him”
“Hey BoyMom….…we’re counting on you”
#TheStraightTruth
#YesIAmThatMom
