(Originally posted 3/6/2010)Dear Josh,
Hi! It’s me, your mom. We haven’t actually met yet, but you’re on your way into this big, bright world soon. The thing is, as soon as you get here it’s all noise and confusion and having to learn to breathe something other than amniotic fluid. After that it’s bugs and trucks and dirt and things that have slime on them. And then it’s all explosions and sports and (ugh) girls. Then it’s mortgages and home repairs and finding some sports car to compensate for your fading youth. Then, who knows, probably something with cyborgs.
But before all that, before the world steals these last moments of peace from us, I want to make sure I tell you a few things.
First, I just want to be honest: I have no clue what to do with you. Great thing to hear from your primary caregiver just before being launched from the womb, right? I mean, no worries on the basics-- your sister was kind of the lab rat for that (no, don’t call her a lab rat). Diapers, baths, feedings, nasal aspirators and those little clear things that go in every electrical outlet in the house-- I’ve got that stuff down.
It’s just the, well, boy factor I’m concerned about.
The majority of my friends with kids have sons, and they all assure me I’ll figure it out and it’ll be so much fun and you’ll be my buddy… blah blah blah. Truth is, I am a girl (believe it or not) and because of that I get what life is like being a girl. I understand the appeal of flying ponies and obnoxious Barbies and songs about love. Not really my thing, but I get it.
GI Joe, wrestling, Transformers, boogers, sports, poop jokes, scabs, foods that are deep fried and smothered in cheese, fart sounds and boobies are not my thing (okay… maybe if it’s a really funny poop joke.) And yeah, you have your dad for all that guy stuff, but that still leaves me wondering where we connect.
With your sister, the bonding is easy. Some popcorn while watching the Oscars, some My Little Ponies and some time playing princesses and she’s all set. And yeah, we all play dinosaurs and farm animals and pirates, but I know what to do with all the stuff that comes after this. Shopping and pedicures and bad movies with Sandra Bullock -- no worries.
But with you, I worry all you’ll ever know of me is the mean, mom stuff, because I don’t really know what else to do past dinosaurs and pirates, and how long can that last? Until you‘re 30, 45 max? And even though we haven’t met, I love you so, so much, and I want to do better than that for you.
So here’s the deal kid; you lead the way. I’ll show you the stuff a mom has to teach you. It won’t be as fun as the stuff dad brings to the table, but somebody’s got to remind you to wear pants when you leave the house. And I can meet you in the middle on the poop jokes and dumb cartoons-- we’ll always have Spongebob Squarepants. But some of this stuff, the boy stuff, I’m going to have to let you do your own thing with and meet you when you get there.
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and you’ll get into running or horror movies. Or maybe I’ll get really lucky, and musical theater will be your thing. But if I’m really, really, really lucky, you’ll find your own passions, and because I love you, I’ll love whatever you make your own.
In the meantime, be patient with me. Remember that I used to be a normal person before I became the frazzled, muttering, shell of a woman I’ll probably turn into (that, you can blame on the Barbie movies.) Remember that I’m always trying to do what’s best for you, even if it’s not going to make you like me. In return, I’ll try not to dress you in too many sailor suits.
Oh, one more thing: I know you want to get out of that womb. It’s cramped and dark and really hard to find a decent martini. I get all that, I do. And if anybody asks, I’ll tell them the reason I want you to stay in there a little longer is because your room isn’t finished or your clothes aren’t ready or any of the other very practical, very true reasons I have to want you to bake a little longer. But between you and me, part of it-- a very big part of it-- is that while you’re in there, I can protect you. I have literally wrapped myself around you, forming a protective mommy layer between my little man and the world. And the world is lovely, really; I’m a big fan of the world. But it’s also dangerous. There are guns and bombs and earthquakes and tornados and germs and governments and wars. There are people who text while driving, shoot without thinking and leave the bar when they should have called a cab. There are STDs and trans-fats and there’s really bad “smooth jazz.” There’s middle school. And love that will destroy you and loss that will cripple you. There are sprains, breaks, cavities, hernias, flat head syndrome, and environmental toxins. Apparently peanuts are some kind of threat now, I don’t know. There are clowns and really, really, bad daytime T.V.
And despite all of that, I truly believe in the depths of my being that this world has more love, compassion, kindness and understanding than any of that bad stuff. If I didn’t , I never would consider trusting you to this existence. But for all the faith I have in the ultimate goodness of the universe, I like being able to shield you just a little bit longer.
So kick all you want, buddy. Pop my ribs, punch my pelvis and bring on the contractions. The world has been waiting for you. It can wait a little longer.
I love you.
Mom
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