Our day started by waking up together and finding a cinnamon bun breakfast to keep up with the ritual bun birthday treat. I looked at him and gushed over and over again how happy I was and how much I valued our time together. We shopped for birthday gifts at the mall and all the guys in the skate shop told him that he had a really cool mom. Calls to cousins, friends, and family rounded out the day. But the building tsunami was on approach.
As it made landfall we were partially prepared for what was to come. While I will skip the details, the result was moderate damage and a lot of tears and a huge emotional mess to clean up. We were able to board up our broken hearts and try to move forward one moment at at time. We exhaled and got ourselves together. Oh, by the way, Happy Mother's Day and Birthday.
What came from the mess was open communication and shared feelings that have been bottled up for the few years. Crossing the San Andreas Faultline was as deep and dangerous as imagined. However, our emergency kit was not too wells stocked.
As I reflect on on the day and its highs and lows, there is one thing that comes to mind. That the boy is mine and we need each other very much.
I did not birth him. I did not breast feed him. I did not watch him take his first steps or say his first words. But we had our own firsts that I can put in the win column. Mother's Day gave us a few more wins and zero losses.
It is our own high-wire where we are harnessed by safety belts and struggle to find our strength to make it through the day.
I let the past few weeks sit with me, to simmer and to gain some distance. The distance that is needed to allow him to grow on his own. To be safe and be confused. I finally hit a wall that many other parents have already crossed and for some that they never transcend. I am still struggling with the chasam between us (physically and emotionally) but perhaps my number was finally called.
I meditate each day that I find strength to sustain the quiet and that my intentions pour from me into his consciousness. It is in this silence that I hope he finds his way home . . .