The first time I saw my son he was leaning up against the right shoulder of his mom, the nylon strap of a soft-sided lunchbox looped across the top of his hand. They stood facing the rising sun, waiting for the same city bus I would be taking to work. The notion that this tall boy with deep black hair and a green neoprene bag dotted with soccer balls would some day be the oldest of my two sons was so far from my mind that at first glance, I mistook him for a college student. Because of that first impression, I was especially cheered by the lunchbox. A college student with a lunchbox. Awesome sauce!
I didn't talk to him or his mom that day. She was a familiar face, someone who regularly caught the bus to the university campus where I worked, but I don't recall if we had talked at all at that point in early spring. Instead, we all piled onto the extra long bus, probably two dozen or more students and employees, and I settled in to read for the 40-minute ride. Molly would later tease me that she had wanted to talk with me for months, but I was oblivious to her interest and would just bury myself in a damn book every morning.
Eventually, we found ourselves talking more frequently, and then a wondrous thing happened. Molly and I started dating. Me, the woman who in her twenties thought quite a bit about wanting kids. I had, after all, decided when I was a teenager that I wanted two boys. And me, who in my early thirties had finally settled into the idea that as a gay woman it just wasn't in my cards to be a mom.
Turns out it was. And now my boy is 21. He's taller, with slightly longer dark hair, and the same smooth, flawless skinned cheeks that tinge rosy like Molly's. His lunchbox turned out to be a test kit for holding his blood glucose meter, needles, and insulin vile, which has been replaced now by a small insulin pump he carries in the pocket of his skinny jeans. Alex has Type 1 diabetes, diagnosed about three years before I met him.
I think often about the years before I knew my kids. Their memories and Molly's vivid stories help me fill in the gaps. But still, sometimes I long to know what it would have felt like to hold Alex in his first days, to feel his little hand wrap around my thumb, or to scoop him up for a gleeful hug after he took his first steps.
He turned the corner fully into adulthood not quite two weeks ago and moved back to Spokane about three weeks before that. It's good to have him home, to have the chance to give him freedom while also continue to teach him what it means to be a thoughtful, responsible, caring grown-up. In this time of transition for our family, I smile at scenes like the first time Alex rode a skateboard and simultaneously worry that I could have done something more or better to prepare him for this life ahead.
We were in the car, all four of us, one afternoon after visiting the boys' grandparents when Alex mentioned he would like to try skateboarding. I was so excited that I blurted out, before consulting with Molly, that we should get him a decent deck, not some cheap rendition from a superstore. We struck a deal that Alex would earn the money for half, and we'd pay the other half, then we made a beeline for a skate shop.
The first afternoon he tried the board out, Alex was outside for barely 10 minutes before he came back in looking flustered. He was 13 and not at all happy with how skating was harder than it appeared. I asked if he'd mind if I joined him, and all four of us headed to a level spot in the street. He tentatively wobbled about as I gave some tips, then I asked if I could try out the sweet bamboo board. He was perfectly amenable and so I stepped on and pushed off with my left foot. How good it felt to be rolling along! When I turned around to come back to where the family stood, instead of pushing off, I kept both feet on the deck and lifted the front wheels off the ground, then swiveled from side to side to propel myself down the street. As I neared Molly and the boys, I spun a 180 with a flourish, hopped off, and scooted the board back to Alex.
What happened next, I keep close to my heart. Especially when that worry pops up. Alex's hands waved joyful as he bounced toward me and he exclaimed with amazement, "Ah, Jill, I always wanted a mom who could skateboard!"
I didn't talk to him or his mom that day. She was a familiar face, someone who regularly caught the bus to the university campus where I worked, but I don't recall if we had talked at all at that point in early spring. Instead, we all piled onto the extra long bus, probably two dozen or more students and employees, and I settled in to read for the 40-minute ride. Molly would later tease me that she had wanted to talk with me for months, but I was oblivious to her interest and would just bury myself in a damn book every morning.
Eventually, we found ourselves talking more frequently, and then a wondrous thing happened. Molly and I started dating. Me, the woman who in her twenties thought quite a bit about wanting kids. I had, after all, decided when I was a teenager that I wanted two boys. And me, who in my early thirties had finally settled into the idea that as a gay woman it just wasn't in my cards to be a mom.
Turns out it was. And now my boy is 21. He's taller, with slightly longer dark hair, and the same smooth, flawless skinned cheeks that tinge rosy like Molly's. His lunchbox turned out to be a test kit for holding his blood glucose meter, needles, and insulin vile, which has been replaced now by a small insulin pump he carries in the pocket of his skinny jeans. Alex has Type 1 diabetes, diagnosed about three years before I met him.
I think often about the years before I knew my kids. Their memories and Molly's vivid stories help me fill in the gaps. But still, sometimes I long to know what it would have felt like to hold Alex in his first days, to feel his little hand wrap around my thumb, or to scoop him up for a gleeful hug after he took his first steps.
He turned the corner fully into adulthood not quite two weeks ago and moved back to Spokane about three weeks before that. It's good to have him home, to have the chance to give him freedom while also continue to teach him what it means to be a thoughtful, responsible, caring grown-up. In this time of transition for our family, I smile at scenes like the first time Alex rode a skateboard and simultaneously worry that I could have done something more or better to prepare him for this life ahead.
We were in the car, all four of us, one afternoon after visiting the boys' grandparents when Alex mentioned he would like to try skateboarding. I was so excited that I blurted out, before consulting with Molly, that we should get him a decent deck, not some cheap rendition from a superstore. We struck a deal that Alex would earn the money for half, and we'd pay the other half, then we made a beeline for a skate shop.
The first afternoon he tried the board out, Alex was outside for barely 10 minutes before he came back in looking flustered. He was 13 and not at all happy with how skating was harder than it appeared. I asked if he'd mind if I joined him, and all four of us headed to a level spot in the street. He tentatively wobbled about as I gave some tips, then I asked if I could try out the sweet bamboo board. He was perfectly amenable and so I stepped on and pushed off with my left foot. How good it felt to be rolling along! When I turned around to come back to where the family stood, instead of pushing off, I kept both feet on the deck and lifted the front wheels off the ground, then swiveled from side to side to propel myself down the street. As I neared Molly and the boys, I spun a 180 with a flourish, hopped off, and scooted the board back to Alex.
What happened next, I keep close to my heart. Especially when that worry pops up. Alex's hands waved joyful as he bounced toward me and he exclaimed with amazement, "Ah, Jill, I always wanted a mom who could skateboard!"
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