Different

I first grew and nurtured girls. Sweet, fun, playful ladies. My heart still aches for those moments piled on our couch, weekends spent as our three-girl-gang (plus one fancy dog). Exploring the city, long lunches, making our own fun at home. Those years are pressed into me, and are undoubtedly where my mind will go, when my body is too feeble to do much else but remember.

But this boy. Tactile. Inquisitive. Intense. Attached. Different.

After years of trial and heartache, he arrived as the crowning (literally) event that rewrote my entire life. New city, new state, new home, new family, and another baby. This time a boy. I still marvel at the sentence: I have a son.

My girls feel like they’ve always been here; I can’t locate a “before.” But with him there is a razor-sharp line. Maybe because I was a girl-mom for almost seventeen years, starting when I was a teenager myself. Maybe because everything else had changed when he came. Or maybe because I knew he was the very last. There was newness and finality both so intense.

I had assumed he was a she. Then the ultrasound tech said, “Oh, he’s not shy,” and there he was…proud, unequivocal, all boy. From that moment on, my most frequent thought was the least eloquent one I owned: This is different.

Labor was long, he was huge, but once he was here he was, a baby. Imagine that. I hope I sink to a better rhythm here eventually, finding my grip on what I’m doing here. Currently I feel awkwardly rusty. We’ll get there, but I digress. In many ways this boy was my “first” all over again. Easy, chunky, content. My brother-in-law took one look at those rolls and stated, “This kid put together in biscuits.” Precious boy. Sweet personality. And then the boyness began to announce itself in moments I still replay on loop.

The first time his fat little hands cupped my face, one dimpled palm on each cheek, and he planted an open-mouth, slobbery cheek kiss. Momma and son.

That was the beginning of a jealous vying for my attention I never experienced with my daughters.

He’s seven now.

As soon as he could sit up he was body-slamming his super hero guys on the kitchen floor. Turning sticks into guns. Walking the edge of every sidewalk like it was a balance beam, sprinting down trails, and flies around corners on his scooter with zero regard for mortality. The instinct to protect him is involuntary and exhausting. Hiking with him is madness. Eating in a restaurant is low-grade torture. He is loud, hot-headed, know-it-all, cool-dude energy in a boy, that is no where near a baby, toddle, not even really that little yet still crashing, bashing, defending, and destroying.

But then night falls, and everything is different again.

His love language is physical touch, and I am the only vendor he accepts. There is a nightly demand to cuddle. He needs my arm, my side, my entire self. He rubs his feet together to fall asleep exactly like I do. He will wedge himself between me and his dad (or a sister) like a possessive little heat-seeking missile. Our favorite way to watch a movie is with him draped across my back like a heated blanket that breathes.

Every morning: long hug, back rub, “Did you sleep good?” (I know it’s grammatically wrong, but it’s ours. When he was tiny he’d have me up at 5 a.m., climb onto the couch with me, and whisper, “You sleep good, Momma?” before we watched Wall-E in the dark for the 300th time.)

“Momma, will you lay with me? Sing and pray? I just want you. Late afternoon came around today and as I was trying to decide what to do next, he presented “Can we cuddle now? I just need it.” First time he’s ever phrased it that way. I’ll take every second of this season, separation-anxiety or not. So my 330-430pm alibi today was that boy, on the couch, watching some guy on instagram making things out of chocolate, and funny dog videos (LOUD laughs if they are reacting to their own farts) and then just quiet stillness of no media, but 30 more minutes of just being together filling both of our tanks for the rest of the evening.

If he doesn’t fall asleep in my arms, he begs me to stay. Most nights I eventually carry him (still carry him) to his bed. He still fits in that space between my jaw and collarbone, even with that giant head. I smooth his sheets, kiss his ears, his hair, his jawline, and wait for the sleepy “I love you, Momma” or “See you in the morning.”

I did the same with my girls. I remember. Ava is nineteen and she still finds me for a good-night hug, but I don’t tuck her in anymore. Why don’t I? I should. She’s still here. I should.

This last baby. This boy. He has slowed me down, sped me up, and scorched every nerve I have by dinnertime. But these nights are sacred. The child I nursed for three and a half years is suddenly seven, yet he still wants his momma. And I still want this time.

“I just want to cuddle here for a minute,” he whispered as I told him it was time for bed. It is no time at all before his breathing changes and he is drifting off. I found myself thanking God for him while I rubbed his strong little arms, kissed his hair, felt the weight of his head and the heat of his hand clamped around my arm. Sleepy, hot, wanting to connect with my husband before sleep, but pulled to stay frozen in the demanded closeness for just a bit longer.

There was a trend a while back of moms asking their big sons if they could pick them up one last time, or just hold them, because one day the carrying stopped and no one could remember when. That day will break me in half.

I get it now, boy moms. I see why we linger longer, baby them when the world says they’re too old, defend them fiercely, pray they become strong and gentle at the same time.

Because it’s different with this boy.