Nate got a tooth knocked skew on the playground yesterday and so we paid an unexpected visit to the dentist. It was a baby tooth already easing its way out of his eight-year old jaw before the swing hit it.
While we were negotiating the mid-afternoon traffic, making our way back to school, I asked Nate (and I can only imagine that it was the “baby tooth” part of the moment that provoked me) if he ever thinks about his mother. His terse “no” stopped me pursuing the topic.
I didn’t tell him that I do – and that I do often. I didn’t tell him she frequently free-falls through my mind. I did not tell him that I know she lives somewhere in this large Midwest City.
I did not say I often wonder if we haven’t already run into her without realizing it, or if she’s perhaps seen us without us seeing her.
I didn’t tell Nate, right then in the car, about all that assembles in my head to tell her when he is being a perfect child; compliant, and funny – when he dances because he thinks no one is looking. It is then that I want her to see his vibrant personality and hear his subtle facetious intonations. I want her to hear him mimic my accent.
I didn’t, right there, tell him, while we were trying to get back to school in time for the end of the basketball game, that I want her to know that when he is not good, when he’s downright impossible, that I want to thank her for this gorgeous child. I want to thank her for this bright-eyed boy, who, along with his brother, has challenged, shaped, and reshaped everything I ever thought about love, all within the brief moment it has taken him to go from diapers, and mid-night bottles, and the pains of teething, to having a baby tooth knocked skew by a swing on the school playground.
