The way things are.

I had the rare pleasure of watching my son fall asleep in my arms today. Usually, drifting to sleep is a physical battle not conducive to snuggling. As he slept peacefully in my arms I couldn't help but think about how much I love him. I always carry my love for him out in the open, no big mystery, but when I stop and think about how much I love him I feel like I might die. The feeling is simply the most intense adoration I have ever experienced. It completely overwhelms me and my ability to describe it. When I think about how much he means to me I just cry. It's all I can do. I love him so much.

So that got me thinking about spoiling my kid and whether I should never let him know how utterly taken with him I am. That led to my realization that no matter how I portray it to him, he will never really understand how and how much I love him. He will never be a mother. He will never know what it is to sacrifice his body for the healthy, happy existence of someone else. That is not to say that fathers don't love their children deeply and passionately. Indeed I know undoubtedly that they do. It just isn't the same sort of love.

I have to admit it breaks my heart when I think of that: when I note that my love for him can't be returned the same way. I suppose it's another sacrifice mothers make. I value my mother so much more because of that than I did before I understood. It also reminds me that he will break my heart a thousand times and thousand more before I kick the bucket. Every time he tells me I don't do it the way daddy does. The first time he vehemently opposes hugs in public and kisses goodbye in front of his friends. The first time that he shouts, "I hate you!" and slams his bedroom door. When he leaves home for college. Every one of those little triumphs that says your child is growing up, becoming more independent and learning how to care for himself is a little stab at your heart that you really shouldn't be sad about at all. They are all steps away from you, away from that little person you grew and birthed and fed and changed and swaddled. That little person who fell asleep in your arms.

I find this fact of life to be very strange. At first I thought it was karma for those nice young men whose heartfelt advances I so unceremoniously spurned. Then I realized that this is simply the way things are, that I shouldn't feel sad about it. I do, though. The same way I feel sad about having to grow old and die. I wonder, as I continue to grow up and change as a person and as a mom, will this sadness diminish? Is this the way it is when you start out, or a chink in my particular coat of armor; some artifact of an over-blown sense of fairness? It will be interesting to find out.

For now I will go on relishing the feeling of loving someone this much and just being thankful that he is my son: my healthy, happy (and for now, sleeping) baby boy.