I still remember the way he felt the first time I held him close to my heart. He was brand new, but I already loved him with every breath that I had. It was much like holding Betsy Wetsy, except he was softer and blinked on his own. Careful attention was given to not poking the top of his head, lest I cause that little head to implode. My guess is that I probably would have been much better off not knowing the head thing, than being told not to poke. One wrong move and that could be it.
That fear was further tested the minute we brought him home from the hospital. I wouldn’t as much as tinkle without bringing the baby to the bathroom with me. Even while cooking, his Rock-A-Roo was propped up on the kitchen counter where I could watch the rise and fall of his chest beneath his terrycloth clothes. While I baked those cheese cakes I craved, I’m certain that he was craving them too. Passed down through his milk, he smelled like a cherry cheese himself. He was so yummy one could have gobbled him up. And I did.
His eyes were like a blue ocean on a cloudy day that’s warm enough to draw you in for a swim. His hair was feathery blond, and his cheeks a fair shade of pink. I loved to watch the way his full lips turned up when he smiled, while I refused to believe it was gas. It was only when he held his fists tight with a quizzical look in his eyes that I’d have to admit it was true, and that it was time for a change.
Picking him up, I kept one hand steady on the back of his neck careful that his head didn’t slip off and plunge to the floor. I was reminded of loose buttons on parkas that barely hang on by a thread.
Diaper changing was something I never thought I’d enjoy, until I witnessed the mighty stretch and the way his chubby legs kicked in that moment he was set free. It was a good time to tickle his tummy and give him the raspberries before zipping his Pooh sleepers back up.
He spent the days cooing and cawing, sucking and burping, peeing and pooping, and screaming. He loved to watch Jeopardy. I’m not sure what fascinated him the most, the music, the questions, or Alex Trebex’s halfro, but whatever it was, it kept him from crying for 30 minutes/day.
My baby is now 18 years old. His eyes are still as blue as an ocean on a cloudy day, his cheeks are a fair shade of pink, and I still love the way his full lips turn up when he smiles.
Adulthood was something I never thought I’d enjoy, until I witnessed the remarkable young man he’s become. He was my first born, which meant that motherhood was trial and error, with the best intentions of an inexperienced girl. I’d always wondered if I did my job well, if I held his head right, if I instilled faith, if I was a good enough mom.
I’m proud to say that he’s grown into an amazing young man. Breezed through the teen years without a hitch, and is now working as an assistant manager in my husband’s company.
He spends his days working and resting, laughing and smiling, writing and singing his songs. He’s an amazing musician with remarkable talent, and I’m proud of who he’s become!
Brendan, you are an amazing kid. You’ve come a long way, baby, and I still love you with every breath that I have.
Visit his website at: www.ostilow.org
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