“Look at your face!” I exclaimed to Ben the other evening, reaching over to touch his cheek. A fresh scratch marred his skin—nothing severe—running from his temple to his eye, red and angry.
He shrugged off my hand without glancing away from the TV. “It’s nothing. Just a scrape from baseball. I’m fine.” Then he added, “Don’t make it a big deal.”
Don’t make it a big deal? This boy—now ten—had come to me for years with every little scrape, bruise, and scare, expecting me to patch him up and soothe his worries. His entire existence was a thing. My thing.
In those early days, I would lie beside him in bed, his tiny body pressed against mine after nursing, his little mouth still moving as if seeking comfort. I often wondered if I held him close enough for our heartbeats to sync. I had read that mothers and their newborns could regulate each other’s body temperatures, and I hoped something similar could happen with our hearts. Perhaps his perfect, untouched heart would slow to mine or, conversely, mine would speed up, infusing my veins with the new blood of motherhood.
I had so much to share with him during those tender moments: how I had never fully understood love until I met him, how he was the most incredible being I had ever seen—even with a bit of fuzz on his skin. I wanted to promise him the world: that I would protect him, that everything would be beautiful, and that no harm would ever touch him. But he was asleep (thank goodness), and I knew better than to wake a slumbering baby, even for whispered promises. Instead, I would press my hand into the soft part of his belly, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his still-soft ribs, pulling him closer.
I recall a childhood memory from when I was about five. My family rented a cabin by a lake, and one evening my sister Emily and I went to the dock to toss bits of our Popsicles to the fish. We dangled our feet near the water’s surface, careful not to let them touch—after all, I had learned the hard way that eager fish might mistake toes for treats.
The dock was slightly wet, and Emily was in her swimsuit. As I watched the fish dart after the Popsicle bits, I noticed her edging closer to the water. But every time I looked at her directly, she seemed perfectly still, just my little sister enjoying her snack.
Then, in an instant, she wasn’t there. I didn’t hear a splash; one moment she was beside me, and the next she was submerged, her calm face looking up at me, eyes wide open. Neither of us knew how to swim, but I called for my parents. My dad dashed down the dock in only a couple of strides, his long legs carrying him faster than I could ever run. He jumped in fully clothed, and that splash—I remember it vividly.
Back on the couch with Ben, I think of Emily and how, when I looked directly at her, she appeared solid and safe. Ben is just a little boy beside me, engrossed in his show. But when I turn away, whether to make dinner or engage with his siblings, I feel like he’s slowly drifting toward the edge of his own life, and one day, I’ll glance over and he won’t be there. There won’t be a splash or a big jump—just a quiet movement away from me, as he carves out his own space in the world.
I’m filled with pride and gratitude for the miracle of watching him grow, just as I do with my other three children, each a unique wonder. Still, Ben is the first who is preparing to navigate his own path. Yet, I worry about how my heart will fare, having synchronized itself to the rhythms of four children. I’m unsure if it can beat solo again.
But as I look back, he’s still here with me on the couch, that scratch on his face—a small thing, starting to bleed gently, marked by tiny garnet dots, reminding me of a delicate bracelet his father gave me when I was pregnant, swollen with life.
I try not to dwell on it, but I can’t help myself. I reach out, touch the scratch, and little beads of blood collect on my fingertip—his blood, my blood. And just like that, he’s sliding, not away from me but toward me, leaning in closer on the couch.
I won’t make this a big deal either, even though my heart is syncing up with his like a drained iPad plugging back in. I still want to whisper promises of a beautiful world where nothing hurts, but I can feel how strong he’s become. He needs those promises less than he did before.
Deep down, I know that one day, he won’t be next to me anymore. Just not today.
Summary
This reflective piece explores the bittersweet experience of watching a child grow up. The author reminisces about moments of connection and love with her son, illustrating the transition from dependency to independence. While filled with pride and gratitude, there’s an underlying worry about how her heart will adapt to the changes. Ultimately, the piece captures both the beauty and the struggle of parenting as children begin to carve out their own paths.