Every Other Sunday

Every other Sunday I see….his deep dark eyes, so much like his daddy.  His curly hair that he has obviously put tremendous effort {and hair gel} into staying in position.  I look up to him now.  This mama’s head coming to his chin, the chin that he leaves stray hairs grow on so that people will know he has the ability to grow hair on his chin.  I see a young man, leaving behind the remembrances of boyhood, much like a snake shedding it’s skin.  I see his face frown and his forehead wrinkle when he realizes our time together is over.  I see that same face beam when his dad mentions his upcoming driving lesson.

Every other Sunday I hear…his sometimes deep, sometimes crackling voice tell me about what he has been doing.  I hear animation and excitement when he talks about photography and the future.  His words are articulate and mature, his topics not as much.  I hear regret and resignation when he speaks of the past.  I hear his need to be more independent tempered by his need for structure.  I hear the little boy of yesterday, tugging on my pant legs as this not so little boy says “Mama, did I tell you about xyz?”.  I hear his need for attention and reassurance that he is loved, NO MATTER WHAT.  I hear his tentativeness when he asks how his brothers are doing.

Every other Sunday I smell…that mix of sweat, hair gel, deodorant and toothpaste that only comes from adolescent boys.  It is an odor barely veiled by the extravagant use of cheap cologne.  I smell a boy, trying to be a man…figuring out what attracts others to him and what is offensive.  I smell fabric softener, different from the scent I use at home and it serves as just another reminder that home is where he does not reside.

Every other Sunday I touch…his soft hands, not worn by work or affected by weather.  The hands of an artist.  I touch his sticky hair and put my hand on the small of his back.  I allow myself to squeeze him in, as if I wish I could just envelope him inside me, away from the cares and hurts of the world, during a brief hug.  Sometimes I find my hand cupping his cheek, wanting to count the freckles {or angel kisses} like we used to do when he was little.

Every other Sunday I feel…a compulsion to pretend like the last five years haven’t happened. I feel the desire to take him and run away so that we can be all together as a family again, even though I know that cannot {and should not} be. I feel angry that he did not come to live with us sooner.  I feel protective like a mother bear for her cubs. I feel frustrated that this is how our life has to be.  I feel helpless and sometimes hopeless.

And, then I remember that at least I have every other Sunday to see, to hear, to smell, to touch and to feel what it is to be Jason’s mama.  And I thank God for every other Sunday.

Comments

  1. What a nice post…how lovely…I thank God for every day but I'm glad we've got those days to smell, hear, feel and be our children's mommies!

  2. how bitter sweet. you are one beautiful mama.

  3. Oh Melissa, this is beautiful. You are an incredible person and I'm counting the days until we finally meet in person!! Love you!

  4. MutheringHeights says:

    Every other Sunday sound like wonderful days with your son!

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