Here's a little piece of trivia for all of you: I never expected to have a son.
I know, that sounds strange. Especially since I always wanted one. Growing up, my ideal family included a son and a daughter, in that order. And yet, until I found out I was having one, I didn't realize that I had never really expected to have one. I had, somehow, assumed I would only have girls. Maybe because that's the family I grew up in, or maybe it's something deeply psychological.
I have found, though, that I was made to be the mother of a son. I love rolling around on the floor with him, being his jungle gym. I love that he's so rough and tumble, that he can take a spill and keep running, just as hard.
Like this weekend. He was running downhill and tripped, scraping his head along the blacktop. As people around us began to panic over the possibility of a head injury, Patrick calmly picked him up, and we comforted him. A smidge of panic fluttered in my belly, but I kept it at bay while I made the basic examinations. He was still alert. A small bump was forming, pushing outward under the scrape. He was screaming, from a mixture of pain and fright, no doubt, but otherwise, his demeanor hadn't changed from a few minutes before. From somewhere, an EMT came running up, and did the same checks, and gave him a clean bill of health. Calmly, I asked what to watch for, just in case. He told me, and I locked it away in my memory, certain, somehow, that it would be unnecessary this time.
And it was. Five minutes later, he was eating chicken and smiling, a new band-aid proudly displayed on his forehead. And five minutes after that, he was fighting to run down that same hill a second time, completely undaunted by the experience.
And me, I'm doing okay, too. Because I am the mother of a son, and I know that these things happen. And will happen again. And he will be okay.
Though, he does look pretty hardcore with his new bruises, no?