Parenting Insights
By: Emily Carson
Updated: Feb. 6, 2021
Originally Published: Aug. 24, 2017
“Your face!” I exclaimed to Noah the other night, reaching out to touch his cheek. A fresh scratch—nothing serious—stretched from his temple to his eye, angry and red.
He shrugged off my hand, his gaze glued to the TV. “It’s nothing. I scraped it playing baseball earlier. I’m fine.” Then, almost dismissively: “Don’t make it a thing.”
Don’t make it a thing? This child—now 10—who once came to me with every little injury, every bump, scrape, or scare, presenting them for me to patch or comfort. His entire existence was a concern. My concern.
In those early days, I would lie next to him as he drifted off to sleep, his body pressed against mine after nursing. I often wondered if I held him tightly enough for our heartbeats to sync. I had read that newborns and their mothers could regulate each other’s body temperatures, and I fancied that perhaps our hearts could do the same. His tiny, unblemished heart, which I had listened to on a Doppler months before his arrival, would slow to match mine or vice versa—mine, a bit worn and cracked, could speed up to pump the new blood of motherhood through me.
I had so much to tell him in those initial weeks: how I had never truly understood love until he came into my life, how he was the most remarkable being I had ever laid eyes on—fur and all. I wanted to make promises: that I would keep him safe, that life would be beautiful, and nothing would hurt. But he was asleep (thankfully), and who would disturb a baby with whispered promises? So instead, I would press my hand into the soft part of his belly, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his still-soft ribs, pulling him closer.
When I was five, my family rented a cabin by a lake. One evening, my sister and I ventured out onto the dock to feed pieces of our Popsicles to the fish. We dangled our feet above the water, careful not to let them touch. An eager fish had once mistaken my toe for a snack, and trust me, that’s a lesson learned only once.
The dock was slightly damp, and my sister wore a bathing suit. As I watched the fish chase after the Popsicle pieces, I noticed her inching closer to the edge out of the corner of my eye. But when I turned to look directly at her, she seemed perfectly still, just my little sister enjoying her treat.
Then, in an instant, she was gone—plunged into the water, or rather, beneath it. I recall no splash, just her calm face under the surface, eyes wide and searching for me. Neither of us could swim, but I called for our parents. My dad rushed down the dock in what felt like two strides, his long legs covering ground faster than I could comprehend. He jumped in fully clothed, and that splash was unforgettable.
Now, back on the couch with my boy, I reflect on that moment with my sister. When I look directly at Noah, he seems like just a little boy watching TV beside me. But when I turn away—whether to prepare dinner, attend to his siblings, or deal with my own life—I can’t shake the feeling that he’s slowly slipping away. One day, I’ll look up, and he won’t be there next to me. No dramatic splash or leap—just a quiet drift toward a life of his own, away from the comfort of my embrace.
I’m filled with pride and gratitude for the miracle of watching him grow, for the gift of having spent time with him—just as I have with his three siblings, each equally miraculous. But Noah is the first whose journey into independence I’m witnessing. I worry about what will happen to my heart, which has synced with the heartbeats of all four little humans in this house. I’m unsure it can find its own rhythm again.
Yet, as I glance back, he’s still here. Beside me on the couch, this scratch—nothing significant—still marks his cheek. It’s begun to bleed slightly, the garnet droplets forming a delicate bracelet, reminiscent of the one his father gifted me when I was pregnant and could have easily been mistaken for Santa in a red suit.
I tell myself I won’t obsess over this scratch, but I fear that if I look away, he might drift. So, I sit and focus on that scratch, willing my hand to remain still in my lap, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. But I can’t help it; I gently press my finger to his scratch, pulling back tiny beads of blood on my fingertip. His blood. My blood.
And then he shifts, leaning a bit, and surprisingly, he edges closer to me on the couch. I remind myself not to make this a thing either, even though I feel it in my heart, syncing like when I plug in a drained iPad. I still want to promise him that it will be beautiful out there and that nothing will hurt. But next to me, I can feel that his ribs are strong now, and he needs those promises less.
Deep down, I know one day I’ll look up and he won’t be there anymore. Just not today.
For more on parenting and family dynamics, check out this resource on intrauterine insemination, or explore related topics on Modern Family Blog. If you’re considering home insemination, you might find this at-home insemination kit handy.
Summary:
The article explores the bittersweet journey of watching a child grow up, emphasizing the emotional connection between parent and child as they navigate the transition from dependence to independence. It reflects on the memories of childhood and the inevitable changes that come with time, all while maintaining a deep bond of love and care.