To My Oldest Son Poem

One I lay in labor clutching your father's hands and breathing deeply ­-

And yearning for the end; when the fog lifted, a small form lay in my arms and it was my small Valentine - YOU.

A hundred nights, I asked myself in a panic "Is he breathing?" and ran to a cradle or bed and touched your warm body.

On sunny afternoons you stood in your crib and reached for a sunbeam and you have grasped for tangible things...baubles, I cherished, that broke at your touch, and I have wept a mothers tears.

I have heard your screams and have run to stop your flowing blood, and sat in emergency rooms stroking your head and holding your hand and praying.

I have looked at school pictures of disheveled children and seen only one face -- yours! I have sat in auditoriums where you were among tens of other performing children and only you stood out.

I have scolded and chastised and paddled (rarely): I have cajoled, laughed, applauded, and advised. I have baked cookies, packed picnics, performed the many small joys for you that complicate and enrich my many special days.

I have screamed at you in impatience over unimportant things and gone to you in your hurt and apologized. I have recoiled at words or deeds "Good" children do not inflict on their mothers and been overwhelmed with forgiveness when you said "I'm sorry." Then it was a special day.

You have come clattering into the house with the smell of school rooms heavy upon you and shouted, "MOM: Guess what?" And I have guessed a thousand times and known the only truth was that you wanted me there.

From the window, I have watched you at play and at work, developing strength and independence and I have felt the tug of a mother's heart to go to you. Sometimes I did and sometimes I was able to let you be.

I have given you over to other mentors - to teachers, ministers, coaches, and have been grateful to them for what they gave you of themselves and proud to share my special days. Sometimes, I have been jealous that you would show them your best face while at home you bare your other faces (realizing, of course, that this is as it should be).

The world claims you more and more, and I go to bed not always knowing where you are, but loving you and trying to trust you always.

You bring me a necklace or earrings for Mother's Day or Christmas or my Birthday, or you bring me nothing more than you have already given, and certainly you need not. I gave you life, and every fulfilling day since, you have give me back something wonderful of your self on a succession of endless special days.