A Mother First
The box retrieved from the top of my own cupboard in my own room is for no one other than me, and this is the year it has been taken down on numerous occasions and devoured. Everything it contains, from the DNA of my miracle child, to the first scribblings that begin the journey to where I sit today, is studied by eyes that will not shed a tear and hands that cling to it like treasure. I live now in an Island climate as far away from Kansas as you could be. It is my home now, but a foreign territory when this box is opened and the memories of a life so far away come flooding back.
The boys in the room below will never know my need to open this box to connect to a son lost from me because they will always need me to be strong, stoic and most of all a Grandma. But before I could be their Grandma I was a mother first. I hadn't been ready even though the want of a child had plagued me for years, I wasn't prepared for the all-consuming needs of a new-born and my all-consuming need to provide whatever was needed at any time of day. I had felt love of course, but the love that grew from the first opening of my son's eyes a few moments after a difficult birth and the worries of the world paled into insignificance. This love stole my heart and slapped me in the face at the same time. I was a mother now, and my life was complete, even the toe curls I experienced from my first disastrous attempts to breastfeed were soon forgotten when the latch became complete and I had a truly contented baby in my arms. He had never failed to surprise me my son, every mother feels they have the world's most precious possession in their arms but history has proved I did.
I leaf through the precious memories, the first curl, first tooth, a favourite stuffed toy, and I see as clear as I am back at the farm in Kansas, after a night of little sleep, the precious babe in arms. The artwork from kindergarten reminds me that this boy always reached for the stars. Then there are the Mother's Day cards, at first written in his father's spidery hand, to be replaced by his own attempts to write his name. Then the bold hand that had grown with Jeff from boy to man, followed by those written by his wife as his life made the necessity of such trivial matters to become insignificant to a man who had reached for the stars and claimed them for his own. I didn't need a card from him then, a mother could never be more proud of her son.
Only once in his life had he disappointed me, only once, and that was when his life had been shrouded in grief and his boys were lost to him for a few months. They needed their father and he had disappeared from emotional view. Presence in body was no substitute for his need to be there for his son's on an emotional and empathetic level. Genetics play their part, and he was very much like his father, if you look hard enough the love is there but children need a literal translation.
It was then the role of Grandma became more important, my son would find his own way, and he did. The world is a far better place today because of his sheer determination that fewer people would experience his grief. Those boys we raised between us, in the arms of a multi-generational family, are boys the whole world can be proud of.
I look down to the box where it all started. My boy has been gone for eleven months, but I know as only a mother could that he is out there somewhere and we will welcome him own. I close the lid to put the precious memories away for another day when I need to remind myself why my Grandson's continue his work in his absence, even though it has caused them numerous instances of physical injury and emotional distress. They are all a part of him and they will all never cease to amaze me.