My Christmas Wish
By Tiffany Lewis

Editor's note: The Mother Mayhem column has been on hiatus while Tiffany Lewis was on maternity leave and her husband was studying in Spain. Now that she has recovered and has her husband back at her side, we welcome her back.

Dear child,

I saw you at the park today, running across the field with your older brother and your dad.  My three-year-old noticed you too.  His blue eyes perked up as he watched you, tall and nimble, roll on the grass, your arm hooked around a Nerf football.  You looked involved with your own family, so my little boy smiled and headed for the slide, but he observed you remotely, watching your movements.

You began to play tag with your dad, and my son heard you shout with delight, “Dad, Dad, come get me!”  And my little boy, who hasn’t seen his own dad for three months, wanted to be a son as well, so he dove on the ground beside you ready to play.  But you didn’t know this strange boy, didn’t know why he was so eager to be included, and so you scooted away uncomfortably, then hopped away laughing and oblivious.

As he watched you go, I saw a look in my little boy’s eyes, a look of surprise and confusion.  He’s not old enough yet to know that the world is not an inclusive place.  In his mind circles are simply shapes, not social symbols with insiders and outsiders.  But in that moment when he was left alone on the ground, the science goggles that he loves to wear (even to bed) perched precariously on his shaggy blond head, I saw his mind, still learning the range of life’s emotions, take that feeling and place it in the dark cavity of his heart.  Then he glanced at me and I beckoned him over for a hug.  The moment passed and he was off again, clamoring over the rickety bridge and through cement tunnels.

And I thought that my heart would burst inside me with the sudden realization of what I had done.  By bringing this child into the world I have willingly plunged him into an environment rife with life’s injustices.  The gift of life brings with it the tragedy of death.  For every laugh there will be a cry of pain.  The joy of shiny race cars, candied apples, out-of-tune musical instruments and that first ball through the hoop will be coupled with broken arms, mean words, being cut from the team and playground bullies.  As long as this child of mine is within my reach I can brush off the mulch-covered knees and deflect ugly snatches of the world.  But soon he’ll be out of my sight, swept away by the current of school and best-friends-in-the-whole-world and soccer parties and Boy Scout retreats.  I won’t be able to straighten that pliable self-confidence or tower over the kid on the slide who plays just a little too rough.

And so my silent plea rises to heaven and falls upon all you big boys and girls, who were once little boys and girls: Remember my son.  Think of him when you are joyful, when you breathe the fresh spring air and stretch your legs to run.  Think of him when you cry hot tears.  He has been sorrowful too.  When you run past him you see just another face, without form or beauty.  You don’t see him as I do, this giant spirit in a too-small body.  I’ve watched him grow in stature from that dark-haired infant to this boy full of wisdom.  He came with a spirit as pure as the snow, and each day with him is a miracle, the miracle of growth and life and understanding.  I have taught him, and he in turn teaches me.  His potential is limitless, his future eternal.

Who once was a babe is a boy will be a man. Can you love him as I do?