Maybe it's just my allergies acting up, but something is definitely making my eyes water as I watch our son, Mateo, blow out the candles on his birthday cake. Could it possibly have been sixteen years since Zet and I stood in the delivery room alongside his birthmother's bed, stunned as we watched his huge head emerge, face down and full of such thick, black hair that even the head nurse, a veteran of many years in the OB/GYN ward, remarked that she'd never seen more hair on a newborn?
RELIVING IT AGAIN
And if I live to be 103, I'm pretty sure I'll never forget the sight of those extraordinarily long, slender fingers on his left hand, reaching up and out over his right shoulder, as if wanting to grasp something, anything, with a seeming sense of urgency. Or perhaps he was simply responding to the surge of energy moving through Zet and me. We had been actively trying to get pregnant and/or adopt a baby for over ten years, so we were giddy with excitement to finally have arrived at that moment.
Among the many thoughts and emotions zooming randomly between my head, heart and belly simultaneously, I distinctly remember staring at those long fingers, wondering if he would use them to play piano or guitar someday. And then there was the heart-pounding sensation of holding him for the very first time, a few minutes later, his skin still dewy damp from the birth canal, my hands suddenly awkward and unsure as I clumsily tucked him into the crook of my arm, wanting desperately not to drop him, eager to love and protect him, but not having the least idea what that really meant.
WHERE AND WHEN
I wanted so much to be a "good parent" and "make the right decisions" yet seldom knew what that meant when it came time to make any given choice - and that's still true today. All those early ambivalences about which car seat, diapers or baby formula to buy; which childcare options to embrace or avoid; how much leeway to give him when he started to walk; what constituted a sufficiently "safe" level of baby-proofing his surroundings.
It didn't get any easier when it came time to discern which kindergarten, elementary or high school would be the "best" fit for his personality and our family's needs. How much should his allowance be? How much guidance on what he does/doesn't eat? How best to help him ease his restless mind and get a good night's sleep? How to help him navigate the fragile feelings around the rollercoaster ride of teenage love?
Only now am I starting to understand that while all those parental thoughts and feelings are natural, they're largely superfluous, and probably always have been in our household. He is his own Being, making his own way through the world, one step, one choice at a time - and I don't have much if any control over his journey. Much as I want to help, guide and protect him, those are mostly illusions that I use to keep myself feeling secure in the face of uncertainty.
BUT THEN AGAIN
The same seems to be true for all my relationships, whether with my dear partner, Zet, my neighbor or a random stranger -- or that wide web of interwoven lives called the Celebration Circle. Relationships seem to work best when I release my desire to control outcomes and focus on the moment at hand, doing what I can to show up as fully as possible, trust the Divine alive in everyone, and love myself and others, without attachment to the results.
As it turns out, Mateo does still have very long fingers and strong hands, and they're still reaching out constantly, seeking new stimuli. These days he's an excellent musician, whose hands switch effortlessly between guitar, piano, bass and smartphone, all of which he uses to create his own pieces on a regular basis as a result of his strong need to express himself - and none of which has anything to do with how much or how little musical instruction I've given him along the way. Although, I can't help but hope that he's learned something from watching his parents living their dreams as fully as possible, there's little I can do about it at this point except love him and send blessings his way.
In peace,
Rudi
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