Reflecting on 13 Years of Weird Mothering

 

The Mud Puddle hits the ripe old age of 13 on Monday and I like to spend this time of year reflecting on those precious months and weeks in 2002 while we awaited his impending arrival. I also like to start giving him stick on or around September 3^rd and continue until his birthday. You see, the MP was born 11 days late and those were the longest, most uncomfortable days of my life. So right about now I am saying things to him like “do you know what I was doing 13 years ago today? Jumping Jacks and yelling GET OUT at the top of my lungs.”

 I also jokingly make him do something nice for me each of the 11 days (usually unloading the dishwasher, which he does anyway or a repeat after me: “Thank you mother, for allowing me to occupy your womb for an extra 11 days.”)

And all of this is hilarious to the both of us. We are two peas in a pod the MP and I. I wonder sometimes if other mothers have the same bond with their sons that I do with him. I assume we are closer than many but I have no frame of reference.

 I have never had another son and quite frankly I am not inclined to ask my MomSon friends about specifics in case it is met with a “NO, you freaking weirdo. Nobody does that but you and your kid.” So I keep most of our little jokes, rituals and conversations to myself.

However, with his impending birthday I will share one of the reasons I think we are so close: I talked to him when he was in my belly. A LOT. I traveled extensively for work when I was pregnant with the MP. We went to all kinds of fabulous places: LA, Tucson, Washington DC, San Antonio. A world wind tour of educational technology conferences. 

And I was always pretty knackered. That baby cooking was very tiring on top of booth duty and social events. So I would usually beg off early from whatever team dinner or pub crawl was planned.

And alone in my room, just he and I, we would chat. Ok, I would talk and he would swim around contentedly living the fetus dream (apparently with no plan to ever actually come out and join the real world).  I don’t mean I would goo goo gaa gaa and schmoop at him, I would talk to him like another person in the room.

I distinctly remember being in San Antonio for a conference in May or June of 2002. I was already in my pj pants and “Free Winona” t-shirt (purchased two sizes too big so I could wear throughout pregnancy: because Ryder is my homegirl) and had the latest episode of “Iron Chef” all ready to go. I was absolutely obsessed with that show during that summer and I would talk to the MP during every episode.

Giving him a play by play and a running color commentary: “Oh my God it is Squid AGAIN!! Why does it have to be that stinky fish?? I can smell it from here.” “Why did he make squid ice cream? That has to be the grossest thing I ever heard of.” And while I would occasionally get a kick of acknowledgement I was content to just talk to him. He was keeping me company alone in a hotel room far from home and I was laying the ground work for many (MANY) mother/son chats to come.

All of a sudden there was a knock at the door: One of my co-workers had come to check on me and wanted to see if I wanted to join them in the hotel bar for an after dinner drink (or milk, or whatever). He kind of peered around me into the room “Is someone in there with you? Did Scott fly out to surprise you? I thought I heard voices.” Nope, not voices, a voice. Mine. Talking to my giant belly. But I was not about to explain to this very nice kidless man that I was talking to someone who didn’t exist outside my own body. I have been hyperaware of my weird mothering techniques since the beginning. (Oh, and he loved my shirt because: Winona forever, or so said Johnny Depp’s arm once upon a time).

Nowadays the MP and I cuddle side by side on the couch and watch tv or a movie and the running commentary is a two way street. Sometimes I feel bad for Scott that we never had a daughter that he could share a daddy/daughter relationship with but then I remind myself that I probably wouldn’t have liked her, she would have gotten in the way of the MP and I, and I was always meant to be the mother of one fantastic son.