Yesterday at thelink-up Jen from The King and Eye hosts once a fortnight (that's every two weeks to folks on our side of the big pond), the directions were seemingly simple:
"Link up a post about parenting, being a mother or a father."
I am a mother and I blog, should be a piece of cake... But as I started sifting through my past posts to come up with an appropriate one to link up, I kept coming upon every other thing. I write a lot AS a parent, but not so much about BEING a parent, in general.
I am all too often very specifically identified:
Autism Mom... Older Mom... Special Needs Mom... Sandwich Generation Mom... Twin Mom... Grieving Mom... but, seemingly, never just a Mom.
The post I finally dredged up? This one: Mom is not allowed to be sick -- a somewhat whiny post about trying to parent vaguely effectively while I was sick as a dog. Not my most shining moment, but at least it fit the bill.
But thinking about all this? Made me a little sad.
Sometimes, I just want to simply be a mom, a plain old mom, a generic mom among other moms. Sometimes I just want to write about my kids as a mom, not wear my specificities on my sleeve all the time.
So, as plain old Mom, here are some small thoughts about my children...
We had our first truly warm spring day today, here in New York City. As the layers peel off and limbs are once again exposed, I observe my boys and marvel at how close to the cusp of big-boyness they have advanced over this long cruel winter.
Ethan is growing leaner, rangier; the shadows of what will one day be muscles starting to take shape across his body; the angles of his face fully emerged, not an ounce of baby-fat left.
Jacob is well on his way to becoming a (gentle) giant. Every time I hug him I marvel at the solidness of his eighty plus pounds. He still asks me to pick him up, twirl him around; and for the life of me, I just can't.
Both boys have sprouted over an inch each in the last three months, as the penciled and dated lines in our doorway will testify.
Ethan, after a number of highly energetic kickball games and an unusually long spate without a bath (don't ask), developed a very grown up smell in his armpits, about which he was inordinately pleased. He is in an awful hurry to grow up and become a teenager, and I am silently begging him to slow down.
But still, thankfully, the little boys remain.
Jacob holds my face in his two hands, locks my brown eyes with his gray-green and says "I love you." I just swoon; hope someday a girl will know this feeling, but for now he is still all mine.
Today, walking to school, Ethan slipped his hand into mine, as he does most days. Strolling down Broadway together, this effortless affectionate bond between us intact, I was keenly aware that it would all too soon be tossed by the wayside, a victim of "uncool."
But now, not yet. For, still, Ethan is happy to fold himself up, catlike, to lay claim to my lap; still content to kiss my cheek hello and be briskly kissed goodbye by me, his mom.
I am linking up this post to the lovely Shell's:
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