Almost two years ago to the day I began mentoring with a writing professor. During this time, I have written piece after piece (prose, poetry, and memoir) for her consideration. Too many to count, in fact, and only once has she gifted me the words “[This is] perfect as is.” It is only fitting that it’s about my beautiful boy, to whom I dedicate this piece.
Mirrors
I rarely write about my son, and I often wonder why. I tell myself it’s because he’s easy. He’s sweet, calm, cerebral, with a quiet intelligence, as big as my daughter is spicy, anxious, creative. My son is rarely disagreeable, witty as hell, and wise beyond his seven years. He’s playful, kind, and well-behaved. Well-mannered, cool, and collected. Gentle, loving, and always willing to compromise and sacrifice, especially for his sister.
“I would definitely sacrifice if the Demogorgon was real,” he says as he sits beside me, watching me write and sending me into fits of laughter. See what I mean? Smart and witty. What 7-year-old knows about a Demogorgon? Or the Goliath bird-eating spider? Or the La Brea Tar Pits?
My 7-year-old, that’s who.
I’m reminded of one ordinary morning in May 2020, when my son was four-and-a-half years old. I was pulling the laundry out of the dryer and thinking about something he had said earlier that morning. He woke at his usual time—6:30 a.m.—and barreled into my bedroom babbling about a spider and Goliath. I had no idea what he was trying to say. David & Goliath came to mind, and I wondered why the heck he was talking about them. I remember laughing and thinking “my brain has yet to rouse from its slumber and already my son is dishing out a science lesson.”
When he finally slowed down and spoke clearly, my husband was able to decipher what he was trying to say: that “the Goliath bird-eating spider is soooooo big it can eat birds and mice and other creatures.” I kid you not; those were the exact words that came out of his mouth literally the second he woke up. My 4-year-old. I looked at my husband quizzically because I had never heard of such a thing, but then again, I don’t like spiders and have no desire to see them! And the funny thing is, my son doesn’t like them either—or so I thought!
Turns out he had been watching and learning about these bird-eating arachnids on the iPad and when I expressed surprise that he had sought out these videos even though he’s terrified of spiders, my husband replied “well, he watches things that interest him.”
I envied his courage.
Just to set the stage here, my kiddo had been waking up in the middle of the night for a while back then, many times over his fear of spiders. I’m not sure when it started but some weeks earlier, we had been reading a book about Spider-Man, which tells the story of how a radioactive spider bites Peter Parker and turns him into Spidey. My son’s first question at the time: “Mom, is a radioactive spider gonna come into my room and bite me and turn me into Spider-Man, too?” And another time he spotted a “daddy leg longs” (his words) in our kitchen and freaked out, screaming “mommy, mommy, a daddy leg longs, a daddy leg longs, get him!”
Oh, how I miss that cute, squeaky voice.
I have such a deep, abiding love for my son. When he is around, I could spend hours just staring at his tiny porcelain face, eyes the color of warm ocean waters that glitter and dance to the melodies he so often sings to himself.
“Mom, why do you always stare at me? It’s so embarrassing!” he playfully scolds, his eyes narrowing and a small smile flickering across his face, his little white teeth barely peeking through his plump pink lips.
“Oh, Lu, I just can’t help it. You’re just soooooo cuuuuute,” I reply, laughing and ruffling his thick, wavy hair.
If you asked me what I find challenging about parenting my son, I would be hard-pressed to give you an answer. Which is probably why I don’t often write about him. Writing for me is therapy, cathartic. I rarely touch on happiness, positivity, silver linings, preferring to fling them all away like red-hot potatoes. I live for the hard shit. The real shit. The raw and emotional shit. I live for vulnerability, self-reflection, solidarity.
My son is all unicorns and rainbows; it’s so effortless to love him.
Then there’s my daughter. My beautiful, sweet, sensitive, precocious daughter. I adore her, too, of course, more than anything, but she isn’t easy. And she doesn’t make things easy, either. Never has. When I look at her, I see myself, and I’ve always been my own worst enemy. I don’t see myself when I look at my son. I see only him. Unconditional love. When I look at my daughter, though, well, in her I see my life’s lesson.
And I wonder, does admitting that make me a heartless mother, or simply an honest one?
That’s a touching piece Sabrina. You are describing your son. But, in my mind’s eye I see your husband arising from the mist of the narrative. Little Nicky was a sweet boy. Very funny and kind. Often he had something interesting or off-beat to say that seemed far too wise and beyond a child of his age. Always a joy to be around and a joy to recall these many years later. Your son appears to have all of the best traits of his father. So I guess it is true…”The apple does not fall from the tree.” 🙂
You’ll always be the one he calls to vanquish the daddy leg longs of life. 💙