Before you go #11: Stay Clean!

 Dear Sam,

I gave up coffee for Lent.  I start with that random bit of information because it led to my remembering a significantly poignant memory that I want to share and help you learn from.  I have suffered pretty severely at times over the last week, struggling through fatigue and brain fog and headaches.  All of these I expected, but my most bizarre, and surprising, symptom by far was severe muscle aches.  The entire back side of my body, from my shoulder blades through my calves, have been almost unbearably achy.  It felt like the sensation you get when you are in the middle of lifting heavy weights except almost unrelieved for days at a time.  It was awful.  Dr. Google said it was due to the hormone adenosine (or something like that—caffeine either inhibits or promotes the release, and when you go off it a body can respond dramatically).  I’ve never heard of muscle aches as a symptom of caffeine withdrawal, but I certainly had something going on.  (It’s also possible that I triggered the reaction through a combination of fasting and over-exercise, but I haven’t had a workout that would qualify as “overdoing it” for a lot of years, so I doubt that was it).

Regardless, I was desperate to relieve it. I tried some pain-relieving lotions, had your dad massage my back and hips, took over the counter pain relievers, and, two nights ago, decided to try a hot bath.  As I lined up my supplies (Epsom salts, lavender essential oil, towels, book), your youngest sister approached and offered to pamper me a bit.  She’s a bit of a connoisseur of fancy bath products, so she gently applied a face mask, drew me a bath and plunked a birthday cake scented bath bomb into the steaming water.  As I approached the water in my bathrobe, she made a hasty, embarrassed exit—the sight of her naked mom not something she had any interest in witnessing. I lowered myself slowly into the water, sighing deeply.  My eyes fell on the faucet, still protected by a rubber sleeve designed to protect little heads from being bonked at bath time.  It caught me up short. 

When is the last time I’ve bathed anyone but myself?  How long has it been since the sight of my uncovered flesh was anything but a source of embarrassment and discomfort for my children?  With your youngest brother just a month away from his 11^th birthday, and your oldest sister in college, it has surely been years.  Then, of course, my mind moved to you, my great big boy ready to leave in just a few short months.  It has surely been almost a decade since you let me anywhere near you at bath time. 

I can’t say I ever loved bath time.  I was always so tired by that point in the day.  I’m sure I rarely indulged you in the sort of aggressive bubbles we could achieve using the jets and a little bubble bath in the huge master bathroom tub I found myself immersed in the other night. 

And then I remembered a time, so many years ago that we hadn’t even yet purchased our house.  You were six months old, your big sister just 2 and we were living with my parents during our transition from our first city back to Dubuque.  They had a huge bathtub—large enough for at least two adults, and certainly more than big enough for a young mom and her two little children.  I don’t think we did it often, but at least once you, Grace, and I all took a bath together. 

How beloved were your little bodies to me back then.  You had the most creamy, flawless skin of any of our babies—smooth and luscious.  We were all so connected—you, your sister, and I.  Indeed, in those months, you barely even understood that you and I were separate people.  It was such innocent, sensual pleasure to climb into the warm water with the two of you.  How easy it was to clean your plump little bodies from inside the bathtub, instead of leaning awkwardly over you and trying to stay dry.  How delightful it was to linger there with the two of you—laughing and splashing and scrubbing.

For some reason, I remember imagining briefly that I was some kind of Egyptian queen, bathing luxuriantly in a warm room with a bevy of servants waiting just outside and my little prince and princess by my side.  I guess I had time for whimsical little imaginings back then when it was just the two of you and we were briefly free of the weight of home ownership while living with your beloved grandparents.  I don’t recall often imagining such silly things, but that night I did, while you and your sister giggled and blew bubbles and I savored the warm water, surrounded, literally engulfed by the wet, wiggly little bodies of two of the people I loved best in the world. 

It's probably weird for you, now, to hear me imagining a bath we shared all those years ago.  Certainly, our body connectedness drifts further and further apart as the years go by.  You’re a full-grown man, now, but then you were just a chubby baby boy who found his best comfort when in skin to skin contact with me.  As I rested comfortably Sunday night (the bath did noticeably relieve my back pain), my mind drifted back over those early years with you. 

You’ll take thousands of showers in the years to come, and I’ll have no part in them, save maybe providing some shampoo and other products.  Of course, any unexpected sight of naked flesh between us is startling and disturbing for both of us these days.  I’ll have to trust, forevermore, that you remember to clean all those once beloved nooks and crannies of your now long and lean body.  Stay clean, Sammy boy.  And maybe let yourself linger in a warm bath, sometimes.  It will be years, God willing, before you must find ways to relieve aches and pains (as much as I miss that sweet baby body of yours, I may miss the lither version of my own from 18 years ago even more!)  But, before you go, stay clean! 

Before you go #10: call your mother!

Dear Sam,

You just left my work from home office.  It’s senior skip day, and you’ve spent the day running around with your friends, hiking and hot tubbing and eating.  You made a point of sitting down across from me and chatting for a few minutes, and my heart is pretty full.  We talked about Lent and our dog, bacon and weed, girls and naps.  These opportunities are vanishingly infrequent, between your school and sports’ schedule, and my job and parenting the other littles, one on one time for us is pretty rare.  I want to clutch it hard these days, because I know it is fleeting and I further know that you probably won’t call me much next year.  I also know that you and I connect easily and joyfully on these rare occasions.  The noise and chaos of our big family gets in the way almost always, but when it’s just us, it’s pretty cool.

I texted with your big sister last night about senior skip day.  I couldn’t remember how it went, and I wanted her to remind me.  It occurred to me, though, that it has been several days since she and I had chatted.  But she calls occasionally, and we are in her college town regularly for the little girls’ sports.  We took her out to lunch less than a week ago.  She was home for your sister’s birthday just a few weeks ago.  She stays connected more effortlessly than I suspect you will.  It scares me.

This morning, your younger sister, who had been on an extended field trip with friends all day yesterday and came home after I was in bed, left without saying goodbye.  It made me cry.  Sometimes I feel like such a throwaway member of this family—necessary only for permission slips and meals and rides and cash.  And, by high school, pretty much just cash. 

Earlier this week, your team was defeated in the regional final leading up to the state basketball tournament.  You were devastated.  As the final seconds ticked away, I told your dad that we needed to stay.  “Why?” he asked, “Sam never wants us around.”

“We just need to this time,” I assured him, confident my mama radar was right and you would need our presence, even if you ignored us.  After the game, and after a long, long wait during which I know your coaches and teammates consoled one another, especially you seniors, you emerged from the locker room with your eyes roaming the remaining crowd of students and parents.  I saw the flicker of relief in your eyes when you spied us, even though it took you awhile to approach us as you talked to friends and teammates.  Your hug was stiff, but you lingered.  My attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic replies, so eventually I just fell silent.  I sensed that you needed me near, so I stayed.  You didn’t need my hugs or my words, but you needed me, and that was enough.

I tell you all these little vignettes only because I want to make sure you understand how finely tuned all of my senses are to you and your siblings.  I once read that the road to motherhood is a one way street, and I understand that now more than ever as you grow up and away from me.  There is never a moment when some part of me isn’t straining toward you, longing for your nearness, craving your smiles and connection to you.

So, next year, when you build your life outside of my home and span of control, remember that, and call me once in awhile.  Check in and tell me about your life.  I will always be interested.  I will always be thinking of you and wishing we were together.  I’ll always want to hear about your naps and treats, your classes and your loves.  Before you go, call your mother! 

Before you go #9: Kiss your mother!

Dear Sam,

This morning I went down to kiss you goodbye before I left for an early meeting.  I still do this, typically to your great annoyance, almost every day.    I was expecting you to be fast asleep (it was a really early meeting) and possibly startle awake when my big head loomed towards your scruffy cheek.  You wrecked my narrative, though, because you were awake.  You explained that you had fallen asleep at 7, awakened at midnight, then gone back to sleep for the night only to awaken again for the day at 5a.  You were idly scrolling through your phone, waiting for your alarm to summon you into beginning your day.  We chatted for a few minutes before I dashed off to my meeting. 

Interestingly, I, too fell asleep extremely early last night, and I also awoke around midnight unable to fall back to sleep.  I read for awhile until I felt drowsy again.  It didn’t occur to me to check on you or any of your siblings.  We are so far past those years, now, and having come through several joint surgeries in the past 5 years, my newer muscle memory is to stay still in the night to protect my muscles still prone to stiff soreness in the wee hours.  It’s been years since I tiptoed around the house, laying my hand on the sleeping backs of toddlers and babies, feeling the easy rise and fall of your little bodies in the quiet night. 

Years ago, I read that nursing mothers who co-sleep (or at least same room sleep) with their infants fall into the same sleep/wake cycles so that when the baby is most likely to wake to eat, the mother is most likely to be at her lightest sleep state.  It’s absurd to assume our strange and similar sleep hours last night were anything but a coincidence, but it had me remembering how deeply connected you and I once were.  I used to call you my butter boy, because your body would melt against mine in relief and comfort every time I picked you up.  In those years, I regularly smothered your fuzzy little head and round, soft belly with countless kisses. 

Even now, I haven’t broken the habit of kissing you all goodbye.  Though I no longer sneak out regularly before any of you are awake, I still make a point of hugging and kissing you goodbye when you leave almost always earlier than I.  Last week you told me, “You don’t have to do that every day, mom.  You don’t have to act like every day is my birthday!”  I am not a morning person, either, so I get your desire to move quietly and unobtrusively through a morning routine without much interruption and with even less conversation.  But I still want to kiss you goodbye.

I was scrolling through some old Facebook photos of you this week and came across this gem of you in your red coat and blue teddy bear mittens.  I remember this photo so well.  It was probably taken around this time of year, as I recall it was warm enough for us to venture outside for some fresh air, but still cold enough to require hats and coats and mittens.  This is our backyard.  I sat on the steps facing the patio while you and your sister ran around.  I recall much giggling, though I don’t remember what about.  This odd little face you are making was your attempt to pucker up for a kiss.  I wanted to capture it that day because I found it enchanting.  You had moved beyond the slobbery open mouth of baby smooches, but still couldn’t master a real pucker.  You pushed out your bottom lip and leaned in willingly, eyes dancing, every time I said “Give mommy a kiss!”  You really were a pretty big fan of mine back then.

So, before you go, save me some kisses as you keep growing up and away from me.  I know it’s annoying and feels kind of weird now that I’m pretty sure your sisters and I are no longer the only girls you’ve kissed.  To me, though, this sweet little backyard embrace was just a heartbeat ago.  When did you finally learn how to pucker up for real?  Most likely it was right around the time when you got stingy with your kisses and pretty much stopped leaning into my embrace eagerly and unabashedly.  But when I look at your manly face, I still see this bright eyed baby boy and want to smooch those sweet cheeks.  Before you go, kiss your mother!