For Growing-Up Moms

Exactly 10 years ago.
On this day.
At this very time.
After a long and meaningful night.
I met DO for the first time.

“Hello,” I whispered, unable to hold back the dam of my eyes, my tears flowing like little streams.

I remember so clearly the first time they handed you to me.
I touched you, afraid of hurting you.
I held you, anxious not to squeeze too tightly.
You looked so unimaginably small and fragile.
Compared to your tiny hands, my fingers seemed like something out of a fairy tale about giants.
I watched.
Pressed my nose close.
Checked, as all new mothers probably do, if you were breathing.
Dressed you, unsure how much was needed to keep you from overheating or getting cold.
I was in a sweat of nerves the first time I bathed you.
Worried that the woolen socks would scratch your impossibly tiny, soft pink feet, like freshly baked buns.

And still, I just kept looking.
Knowing I could never tire of watching you.

Ten full years have passed.

“Good morning,” I whispered quietly, stepping into the room with a candle-decked cake.
And I feel it—the same sparkle in your eyes as on our first meeting.
But over the years, with well-trained dams of tears,
it doesn’t spill.

You reach for my shoulders.
I struggle to lift you.
You are solid. Strong.
I could hardly keep up with you climbing.
You dress yourself, understanding the balance of not too hot and not too cold.
You shower, humming something under your breath.
Your shoe size is nearly catching up to mine.
You have a crowd of friends.
You are independent and responsible.
I can hug you firmly, without fear.
Without anyone seeing, I can squeeze you with all a mother’s tender honesty.

And yet—I still catch myself:
I look at you and still cannot get enough.
Ten whole years.

We, mothers, are born watchers.
We do not tire.
We do not rest.
We do not ruin our eyes.
We learn to see mistakes at a glance.
To recognize triumphs and adventures half a mile away.
With a look, we gauge ailments.
From a bustling playground, we can spot our own.
From the way they walk. From their gestures.

We, mothers, watching them through the fireworks atop birthday cakes,
Shoot even bigger fireworks in our hearts.
Our own hearts burst
with joy that they’ve grown so much,
with sorrow that time flies too fast,
and with memories of all we’ve done together.

Happy birthday, my heart’s pyrotechnics specialist, DO.

Shooting bigger fireworks in my heart than those on the cake,
V.