Feelings
Not with my son, you don’t!
By Emmanuelle
This week, this mother talks:
It was an indescribably difficult birth, but finally, after twelve hours of dry labor my first child was born. He will be my first and only son. I will have my first and only girl many years later, but that is another story. Let us stick to this one first.
The first time I held my son was when he was a week-old, and I was a week-too-long in the hospital. We spent the seven days recovering separately from the trauma of that first birth. When the nurses deposited him gingerly into my arms though, what we both had was love at first sight! His big, doe eyes and his pair of deep, wicked dimples tugged at my heart, pulled it straight out of my ribs and dropped it right unto his palms to do with whatever he pleased. From that moment on, I was his mother and I was his slave.
Although his father and I share twelve long scholarly years of college between us, we were still so very far from our target of being considered relatively well-off. Relatives, we had plenty. Well-off we were definitely not. As it were, we were off by miles from our mapped schedule. Young and starry, starry-eyed, we planned to be filthy rich at twenty-five, millionaires at thirty, billionaires at the count of any of the succeeding fives. In truth of fact, at mid-twenties, we had barely just begun. We had a house and lot which we cannot pay SSS regularly. We had no permanent regular jobs. Pretty irregular for seemingly regular guys, according to our loyal friends fast dwindling in numbers, overseas workers somewhere white or elsewhere hot.
And so, that was the lay of the land when we brought Gem home. We decided to call him Gem. Actually, I decided to call him Gem. I had no jewel to my name, but who needed gems, when one had Gem? Gem’s first crib was a rattan chair, one of a set, painted white. When he was bigger, he had the living room table for his own. Every night, I tucked him, warm and comfy, between his father and me. Soon enough, his father got the hint. Heshifted his beddings down to the floor.
Until my sister-in-law donated the crib outgrown by her five children. This one was blue and white, tall and sturdy and had two opposite sides that can be pushed all the way down. After serving as crib, it can be bed to a five-year old child. It was so sturdy, it too was crib and bed to Gem’s one and only sister many years later, but that is another story. Let us stick to this one first.
Born not through caesarian section and without pain relieving drugs or injection, per this mother’s stubborn instruction, Gem grew to be a toddler at 10 months. He toddled on his plump and dimpled feet around the house but especially towards the windows where he could look up to the skies and watch the cloud shift shapes and colors and moods. When we had the windows screened to keep away from him all harmful winged stingers, he would wave his plump likewise dimpled hands as if to clear away the aluminum squares that somehow obscured his vision of the sky. Thus, months before his first birthday, he spoke his first words “Wah na sky!” Paulit-ulit.
And each time this son of mine got sick, I would go all weak in the knees, and I bend those knees to face the same skies he looked up to and I pray and I grovel and I beg. To Him, to His Son, to His Son’s Mother. To Them with Whom he had touched five almost every day of his toddler’s life. Take care of this child, save this child, for before he was mine, he was Yours, first and foremost.
And he was saved. And he would be toddling, and running at last, if not soon.
And that is why, whoever whatever brings harm to my son, or my daughter (but that is another story. Let us stick to this one first.) are enemies I swear to fight to my last breath. With my puny human strength, I shall ward them off: Not with my son, you don’t.
I believe You should have said too, my Lord my Father, as they prepared to crucify Your One Holy Child: Not with My Son, you don’t.
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