On Love

Soren, Soren, Soren. It must seem to you he's all I ever write about. But what can I say? I'm in love. And as I write this, I feel guilty, because it should be Abraham, Abraham, Abraham for whom my heart beats, and certainly there is a large portion of my heart that does beat for him, that pounds for him even, but that doesn't compensate for the fact that 95% of my posts on this blog are dedicated to my baby, 3% are dedicated to me, and 2% are related to my husband. (This is all in direct proportion, by the way, to the dedication of my time and energy.) In fact, the poor man, he recently said to me, "I knew you would love our children more than me-- my mother loves us more than she loves Dad--but I just didn't expect it to hurt so much." But, upon reflection, I think I have identified two main components of mommy love that are often lacking in wifely love (at least in my brand of wifely love).

The first is an absolute purity of service that defines the mother/child relationship. The time, the energy, the strength, the sleep, the love that I give to Soren is given freely, without expectation of reciprocation or even gratitude on his behalf. He needs me to comfort him when he awakens at night with a stomach ache. He needs me to lift him out of his crib in the morning. He needs me to break his food into bite-sized pieces. He needs me to dress him, to undress him, to make sure that he's covered with blankies while he sleeps, to keep him clean. He needs me to wrestle him to the ground, pin him there with my feet, and, using half a container of baby wipes, properly dispose of the hazardous waste he daily produces in his diapers. I perform these labor and usually do them without resentment. I don't ask for his thanks. I don't expect him to repay him. All I want is for him to be safe and happy. For him to feel loved. For him to grow and develop in the ways that are best for him.

The second is the fleeting nature of childhood. This concept is best captured, not in words of explanation, but in an image:

It's me. I'm holding my son in my arms in his bedroom, rocking in the glider rocker. He is wearing blue-and-white-striped winter pajamas that are too small for him: sleeves that were once long now reach just past his elbows. I am cradling his head in my right arm and his bum is tucked into the crook of my elbow. His head is tilted back just a little, making his neck look stretched and turtle-y. His arms are crossed and his dimpled fingers are relaxed. I kiss his little cheek; it is cool and soft and smooth and elastic, like well-kneaded bread dough that has been left to rise. In the glow of the nightlight I gaze at his face and try to burn its details into my memory; I know that when he awakens in the morning something will be different, and the day after that something else will have changed. My heart breaks to think that, tomorrow, the Soren I hold in my arms will be gone and a new one will have replaced him. And that someday too soon he will be too big to be held and rocked and soothed at night. I will love him then just as much as I do now-- probably more!-- but there is something about this Soren that I don't want to lose. The sweet curve of his eyeballs resting under delicately veined eyelids. The way his bottom lip tucks in slightly when he sleeps. The unadulterated innocence and un-self-consciousness that attend him in sleep and waking. I don't want to forget the way he gives tooth-heavy kisses while pulling my hair. I don't want to forget the shine in his round blue eyes when he gives me a drink from his glass or a bite from his apple. I don't want to forget the way he inevitably smiles when I read to him the first line of his favorite book. I don't want to forget dancing with his little head resting on my shoulder. I don't want to forget the music of his smile and the poetry of his laughter. I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget. And so I watch and adore as much as I can, hoping that I can retain at least a small portion of the radiating and filling happiness, the pure, golden, brightly-lit love that mothering Soren has brought to me.

This sort of unadulterated love is very good for the soul. I believe it's the sort of love we need to strive to cultivate in all our encounters with fellow human beings. And I believe it's the sort of love I would like to develop more in my relationship with my sweet husband. I should set aside my expectations for those things I think he should do for me and simply seek for his happiness and well-being. And I should remember that my time with him, too, is fleeting and precious. I think I feel a New Year's resolution coming on...