Emancipation
Late last year my son called me. He said that he wanted to be emancipated. He wanted to be economically self-sufficient. He would work full-time at a good paying job. He would maintain his own health coverage, other benefits, complete his undergrad degree on his employer's tuition reimbursement plan. He would finish it "in due course" - a scary thought to me. But I was never so proud of him. And something hurt, for no rational reason.
His birthday was yesterday. As clear as yesterday, I saw him less than a minute after he was born. A new consciousness, a new being. I remember so clearly my first sight of him, thinking, in classic south side Chicago Polishness, "Oh my God, I am responsible for you."
I was not ready for it then. And now I am not ready to forego it. I want him to be little again, to hold his eight and a half pounds in my arms and fall asleep with him. I hear him cry. Then in the same instant I hear him laugh as a little boy, enjoying everything around us, learning and growing. I see him fall in love, showing that special contentment we only get from that.
Nothing bad should ever happen to him. He shouldn't get hit in the face with a batted ball. He shouldn't fall into the water and be afraid of drowning. He shouldn't be ridiculed by his peers at school. He shouldn't be dumped by a woman he loves. He shouldn't ever be too hot, or too cold, or too alone, or too unhappy.
That moment twenty-three years ago and this moment yesterday - and everything in between. See, it all just happened a second ago. It's all rolled up together. It all feels the same.
I did not know what love was until I saw him come out, come into the world. I never knew I could feel this way about anyone or anything. I don't want him to go, and I don't want him to stay and stagnate and atrophy as a human being (I've seen that, too). I burst with pride and love and hurt.
I'm way too sentimental. Thank God for that; it makes me feel alive.
Be free, my boy. Run with the adeboodie cows. Never suffer a day's pain, loneliness or despair. No matter what, know how much you are loved.
His birthday was yesterday. As clear as yesterday, I saw him less than a minute after he was born. A new consciousness, a new being. I remember so clearly my first sight of him, thinking, in classic south side Chicago Polishness, "Oh my God, I am responsible for you."
I was not ready for it then. And now I am not ready to forego it. I want him to be little again, to hold his eight and a half pounds in my arms and fall asleep with him. I hear him cry. Then in the same instant I hear him laugh as a little boy, enjoying everything around us, learning and growing. I see him fall in love, showing that special contentment we only get from that.
Nothing bad should ever happen to him. He shouldn't get hit in the face with a batted ball. He shouldn't fall into the water and be afraid of drowning. He shouldn't be ridiculed by his peers at school. He shouldn't be dumped by a woman he loves. He shouldn't ever be too hot, or too cold, or too alone, or too unhappy.
That moment twenty-three years ago and this moment yesterday - and everything in between. See, it all just happened a second ago. It's all rolled up together. It all feels the same.
I did not know what love was until I saw him come out, come into the world. I never knew I could feel this way about anyone or anything. I don't want him to go, and I don't want him to stay and stagnate and atrophy as a human being (I've seen that, too). I burst with pride and love and hurt.
I'm way too sentimental. Thank God for that; it makes me feel alive.
Be free, my boy. Run with the adeboodie cows. Never suffer a day's pain, loneliness or despair. No matter what, know how much you are loved.
posted by John Bernat @ 3:03 PM
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