Things have changed since my beloved’s were babies, toddlers, seven-year-olds. I used to watch their drowsy, chubby baby cheeks and feel like my heart was going to ooze right out of my body. I used catch them singing to Bear In the Big Blue House and pile bath bubbles in a cup and I’d strap them into their car seats thinking it was going to last forever.
Now they scoff at Nick Jr. and take too long in the shower and fight over the front seat.
They are still my beloved’s. When I see her laughing with a group of trendy-dressed school friends, their heads tossed back in utter hilariousness, my heart swells. I’m clearly not the only one who thoroughly. She shuts her door when she gets a phone call then tells a friend she can’t come over because she’s hanging out with her mom. I want it to last forever.
He is hunched over in front of his laptop, mouse button clicking, fingers effortlessly finding the right keys, click, click, click. He is in his own world where numbers and objects replace unnecessary words and I relax in knowing that he doesn’t have to interact with someone if he doesn’t want to. I give him his space, and I know it’s a sacrifice that translates as love. He excitedly tells me about a computer program and I barely grasp what he is saying because my brain doesn’t match the complex firings inside his. I want to yell as loud as I can, “My son is brilliant!”