Idealism

He runs with a maniac kind of glee, I can't explain it, really, but it fills me with pride and a kind of blurry familiarity.  His right foot is slightly turned in, he's a little pigeon toed.  Like you were, when you were little.  He is eager to point out everything that adorns his world with wonder: the droplets of water clinging to dotted ferns, the crows circling the beach for scuttling crabs.  In the early evening, before we go to pick up groceries for dinner or a cake for a treat, he pulls my hand and urges me to sit on the front stoop with him.

"We watch da sun go down behind da twees,"he instructs, and we both watch solemnly, the grey clouds swirling behind the mist in the firs, for a hopeful orb concocted by a two year old.  He stares so intently that I can see his sun, too.

He is fiercely independent, and steps into the Jeep himself, heaving his solid little body above the mat, angling his head and gripping the edges to pull himself up. 

"I find a nak, Mommy." He has spied some discarded crackers on the floor, and he is so delighted with his discovery that I let him eat one.  He shares, solemnly, "One for you, Mommy", and together we eat dust-coated goldfish, slightly soggy with the perpetual moisture of the Coast.

I eye him in the rearview mirror, most days he is wearing his dinosaur jacket and matching green rain boots.  He tells the clerk at Safeway about his fierce shoes, laughing like an orchestra when she feigns terror.

He talks to himself a little, I'm not sure what he says but it is very important.  He whispers that he is a hockey player, he scores goals and sometimes he eats chockylit.  He has an odd little way of expressing incredulous affirmation.

"I love you, N," I tell him,"I love you THIS much."
"Yeah?" he echoes, a delighted smile lighting his face,"Mommy loves me?"

He's fiercely smart, you know?  It's something you can't tell everyone: all Mamas think their kid is brilliant.  But he is.  He remembers everything.  Everytime we pass the Tim Horton's on the Dollarton Highway, where you picked him up that one time, he quietly whispers in the backseat: "Daddy have cottee in der."  He thinks you are in there, he whispers it because he thinks it might hurt me to say it louder.  I don't know how I know this.  I don't know how he does.

People look at us and I know they wonder our story.  Why there is no man when we go shopping, get groceries, tromp through puddly parks and eat brunch at our own table.  He has a marked penchant for large men, men with black hair, young men with green shirts, hoping they are you.

At night, sometimes, he crawls in to bed with me, careful not to make too much noise, lest I send him back to his own bed.  He kisses my forehead like I am the one who needs it and curls his hand around my thumb.

"I lud you Mommy," he whispers in the darkness, and I can see his moon-shaped face alight with the silver moon, I can see your eyes in his smile.  He is here for a reason, our boy.

The conversation swirls in my head,  and like clockwork my cell phone suddenly vibrates against the sharp bone of my hip.

"He is doing fine, he had a big lunch," I say, and that is all I say before that is the end of that, all you want to hear. I hand the phone over to our son.

And I marvel at the enormity of the unspoken word.

Comments

[Sharon]

Beautiful writing, Kristin. Feels sort of silly saying what everyone says, but your posts are just BEAUTIFUL. I figure no one can or should get tired of hearing that they're beautiful, right?

[sky girl]

The way you love your son is inspirational.

[Niki P.]

I am in tears here, sitting at my desk pretending to be working. I don't know you but I want you to be happy. You will figure it out.

[Miss Pickle]

You have once again brought me to tears. Nolan is so unbelievably lucky with you as his mother, Kristin. :O)

[Annie]

Are you thinking about sending this to R?? Maybe it would "help" things for him to read it? Amazing post as always :) Hang in there, it will all work out in the end, I promise.

[Kari]

There is such an elegance in your writing.

I know you are better now. I, too, am better now, but there are still those days and moments where the pain and loss can be crippling. You just express it so much better.

[Sadie]

This is a lovely description of your son; he sounds like a really bright, wise soul.

It hurt me to read that he whispers about his father, perhaps so as not to hurt you. I was that child once, and it is a hard position to be in; your words brought me back there. You are obviously a wonderful mother to Nolan, and I say this gently, but perhaps he should not be so aware of your hurt.

[Jamie]

I agree with the previous posters on this blog.

Your writing is beautiful, your love for your son inspirational. We all want you to be happy. I don't know your story, but I'm sorry you hurt!

[Angella]

Sigh.

[lindsayc]

I am watching my best friend go through a horrific divorce. One that I am sure is crippling her son. She and her ex cannot even speak to each other, it is so sad. So this post moved me to tears, glad to see that people who are better now can be co-parents even if they cannot be spouses. Thank you.

[Monica C.]

More than anything, you make me strive to remember when I loved - and hurt - so deeply. And boy, did I ever. While I do not yearn for those deep highs and lows, I do know that was a period when I was truly alive.

Just know, there will come a time when all of this fades to the recesses of your heart and mind - and in the meantime, continue to fill yourself up with the beautiful love of your son!

[gina in sc]

i sit here crying too... does "he" read your blog? if so, i bet he cries...for what you once had...

[renmen]

such a sweet, sweet boy... i am so glad you are sharing him with us again.

[JAB]

You truly write beautifully, Kristin. It is such a strange sensation to feel the pain and also the hopefulness in someone else's words a whole country away. I am glad you are doing better and Nolan sounds such like an amazing, strong little boy. You are very lucky.

[Maya]

That boy is just a treasure. A real, live, walking, talking gem. I can see that he got your sensitivity genes, Kristin. What a beautiful way you express pain, longing, feelings, in. Thank you.

[jonniker]

I'm a product of an extraordinarily acrimonious divorce, and though it was hard at times, it was, ultimately, okay. No, no -- it was more than okay, as I ended up with two extra parents in my step-mother and father, and my parents were really able to grow as people much more apart than together.

Nolan will be just as lucky. Being a child of parents who are no longer together has unusual upsides that are hard to see when they're small. But as a kid who's been there, I want to offer another voice of hope that really, it will be okay -- it will.

[She Likes Purple]

He will be okay. He will be better than okay.

[Heather B.]

I too come from a family of a fairly civil divorce. I was actually thinking of it all today as I had my father phone is former sister in law (my mother's sister) for football tickets and it seemed so very normal. Like that's just how it was supposed to be because some people probably aren't meant to be married and yet it is perfectly OK.

I'll write more to you in an email later because I have so much more to say. But this really, really hit home with me.

[Jen]

Wow.Just wow.

[jenB]

I NEVER wonder when I see a mom and child. There are tons of single parents or the dad is working or there is no dad in the picture. I wouldn't worry about the judgment, it probably isn't even there.

And if you eventually don't want to be single, the universe and your X-treme hotness will make it so.

[superblondgirl]

I think I'm going to cry. How do you manage to write something so simple and so poignant without it turning out trite and silly? You are so freaking talented, woman. I love this post. Every time I click over here, another treasure.

[Samantha]

Love this.

[mandy]

Tears still streaming. How amazing your writing. I know everyone says the same thing, but really...I can see everything you say. The most unbelievable writing I think I have ever read really.

[Emily Seymour]

I don't know if I can handle the addiction to your writing again. I am reduced to tears at almost every post. Love your writing, it's so wonderful that you get to share this special side of you. You're amazing.