The joy of having a son…

At the end of last week, life happened again.
And once more, the two of us were sitting in the ER, patiently waiting our turn by the trauma office.
“Did you give any painkillers?” asks the pleasant doctor, lifting her eyes from the little finger that resembles a tiny pillow.
I shake my head.
“You endured it well, champ?” she asks.
“I cooled it when it hurt a lot in the puddle,” answers the child.

We leave the office together, Dominykas with his broken finger in a cast, and I am once again reminded that patience beside a child is boundless.

On Monday evening, after a photoshoot on our terrace, when the kids returned from schools and kindergartens, both of them settle beside me on the “extra promises” bench.
Patricija leans toward me shyly and says,
“Mom, that lady is so beautiful” (she’s looking at Karolina, who usually occupies my spot).
“Just look at her hair! Long, dark, and curly!” she exclaims, fireworks of admiration sparkling in her eyes.

Hearing this, Do cuts in:
“But I still think mom is prettier. Even without such hair.”
I smile and gently stroke my most loyal supporter.

When I first learned I was carrying life beneath my heart, I remember wanting a boy with every fiber of my being. I was so convinced that HE was growing inside me that when the doctors announced they could see “something” between his legs, I fainted from happiness and told everyone it was crucial to simply wish—and dreams come true.

He would be my little hero. My support. A fortress behind which nothing would be scary. My protector and defender.
That October morning, HE was born. Small, incredibly beautiful and sweet.
He took me by the hand and led me into the colorful world of motherhood without asking much.

I quickly learned what tummy aches are, mastered teething lessons, and was trained to sleep with nightly pauses. Many nightly pauses.
I understood that moms don’t get sick. And if they do, they mask it so well that it seems they didn’t.

I proved to myself—and to everyone else—that it is possible to manage life with a baby in your arms. Not just possible, but achievable in abundance.
Carrying a not-so-light companion in a sling, with a backpack over my shoulders, and bags in both hands, I walked through everyday life holding onto a firm “I can” mindset.

I hummed a lot and every evening experienced the “marathon” bedtime process, when the eyes would appear almost closed, then tiny again. I trained my patience to press the “repeat” button.
Sometimes it felt like my arms had grown longer.
I realized I could no longer stand still; I bounced constantly—even when there was no baby in my arms, just out of inertia.

After the second carefully planned birthday for Do, I cried sincerely and tenderly:
“I’m hiccupping, wiping salty tears and sighing: ‘Why everyone else, but mine, the grumbler, so rare?’”

“It will pass, he’ll grow up,” my mom consoled me, stroking my hand—and at that moment, I could not believe it.

The years passed.
Tummy aches disappeared.
Teeth came through.
Grumbles scattered.
Nights became pause-free.
I stopped bouncing.
My arms returned to their usual length.

And now, walking together along a green forest path, we talk about… LIFE.
Not childishly. Honestly. Sincerely.

And even though my heart’s little captain is only ten, sometimes I feel next to him like I’m behind a high wall—one that reflects any unfavorable word thrown toward me.

He is so smart.
Sensitive. Patient.
Empathetic toward those in pain.
Observant of those feeling worse.
Not complaining. Not sighing.
Not long-winded.
But always present, at the right place and the right time.
Exactly when a sincere conversation or just being nearby is most needed.

I tell him about the quirks of his infancy, and I can hardly believe that the person walking beside me is the same one who, tensely pulling the string of my patience, more than once risked snapping it. What do I mean “risked”? Could have broken it entirely.
And it turns out he was just teaching me patience. While also cultivating it in himself.

For the moms,
Who naively believe in the sweet “fairy tales” of motherhood,
Always secretly knowing that every story has a happy ending.

V.