Sons Day

Before you were born, I knew I would love you.

I had your sister as a primer . . .

. . . so there were some things I was certain about, beginning with (a) I would love you, and moving on to (b) I would make mistakes, and then of course (c) you would be unpredictable, wouldn’t conform to any of the numerous books I’d consulted about early childhood development and parenting.

I knew I’d love you with that bone-deep, gravity-defying attachment that makes mothers everywhere weep uncontrollably when their babies fly away from the nest. Not because you’re perfect (like everyone, you have your flaws, I have mine, and we love each other anyway), but because you’re my son. Studies have shown that some of your cells remain in my brain from the time I carried you in my body. How could I feel anything but love for you?

What I didn’t know is that I would also find in you a deeply satisfying friendship.

As a toddler, you were so very self-contained. You could entertain yourself for hours with a single matchbox car, driving it over furniture mountains, into bathtub valleys, across the highway of your sister’s legs. You were making up stories, pondering the great imponderables, burbling to yourself.

You loved books, just like your sister, but you liked to turn somersaults and even cartwheels while I read to you, needing physical as well as intellectual stimulation.

And you were affectionate, like your sister, but your displays of love were fleeting, a bumblebee’s kiss on the rose before moving on to other blossoms.

By the time you were four you told me that you kept getting in trouble (in preschool!) because you “liked to make everybody laugh.” (I don’t know if that’s what was behind your declaration, at preschool graduation, that you intended to be a ski bum when you grew up, or if that was your sincere ambition. I still wish you could have realized that dream . . . .)

By the time you were seven you were a semi-frequent visitor to the principal’s office because you could not stand to see anyone bullied. You tried to use your words. “She doesn’t like you pulling on her coat,” you said to one young bully. “Stop it,” you said, a little louder, when he continued tormenting the little girl. Still the pulling continued, and here came the tackle.

Aaaand it was back to Mrs. Chally’s office . . .

Then came adolescence, and your sweetness was tinged with confusion and arrogance. You confessed to me once that you were “not very nice” at times, in your teenaged years. I don’t know what made you say that (if I’m honest, I don’t want to know), but I do believe that not-niceness was a blip, an anomaly.

Same person? Hard to say…

And oh the brilliance. You leapt into the universe of thought, your natural home, it seems to me. Literature, science, math, arcane esoterica, silly facts—your mind waltzes joyfully, tangoes and foxtrots and moonwalks, with knowledge as its partner.

The one constant, besides love, has been change. You’d latch onto something, focus on it obsessively until you’d mastered it, then let it fade away, the thrill of mastery apparently gone. For several years soccer was your life. Then music, guitar in particular. (I still miss those moments when I could listen to you play, transported by the sound.)

Now you’ve turned your prodigious brain to epidemiology and equity in healthcare for the LGBTQ community, and I’m certain the world will be a better place for your efforts.

And always, with every change, leaping into the next adventure.

Leaping away.

My only consolation: periodically, you come back to me, share your sly wit, your keen observations, your ridiculous puns, and let me pamper you and talk your ear off. Good books we’ve read, new recipes we’ve tried, the latest news, a sweet moment with your Person, the antics of our dogs. (You are one of only three people in the world with whom I never want the conversation to end. You know whereof I speak—as a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, there are many people whom I love ferociously, but that doesn’t change the fact that after a while I need to be alone, to recharge.)

I hope that never changes—the leaping into new adventures, and the coming back to me.

I can’t wait to find out where you leap next!

Postscript: Because as a former lawyer and academic I can’t resist citations . . .

Footnote #1: Grammatical errors drive me bonkers, but I had to give up the fight on the title of this post. Roughly half the results on a Google search showed “Sons Day” (i.e. celebrating the world’s sons), and half showed “Son’s Day” (a day dedicated to and belonging to each celebrant’s son). Ah well.

Footnote #2: My post to Daughters Day (Daughter’s Day?) was over a month late. This post has doubled that record tardiness. But hey, according to some sites National Sons day isn’t until March 4, 2023. So just think of this as early!

Footnote #3: I’ve seen some comments that National Sons and Daughters days could feel exclusive and/or offensive to trans and non-binary people. It seems to me as long as we make room for each person identifying their own identity and corresponding role in the family, we may preserve the celebration while honoring each person’s identity. I would welcome feedback on that.

Footnote #4: An interesting article on the importance of thoughtfully raising sons https://nationaltoday.com/national-sons-day/