I Choose The You That You Are

To My Son,

Because you run down the street with underwear on your head, rubber boots on your feet, and your arms white wings the wind carries, I am lucky to mother you.

I decided sometime soon that I would never cringe again. I will not retreat into my pocket of apologies when you are the only child that does not follow the simple rules of row, row, row because your boat is your own at library school, and you can not help but throw your body against the stream of legs at the fairground today, and push your way through to where the field is open.

You do not mourn for the dying grass, but surmount the free that is you rolling yourself into happiness that will leave permanent stains on your little boy clothes. Your face a smear of jelly and dirt, I do not bother wiping clean with the wet tongue against my finger.

This dirt has become your signature, while other mothers stand holding firm the hands of well-pressed children, and your sister sits a daydream to herself, examining the ridges of red leaves falling, you are more primordial, down on all fours in the mud, shaking out your imaginary fur, barking and wagging your bottom.

I am not sorry for you.

I am not sorry for the way you weave in a zig and zag while the world is stiff and straight. There is no room for sorry when the ground shakes under our feet from a million violins, and you reach up and ask for me to dance. I spin you reckless to the wind, around, and around, not caring about the apple cider that they are brewing, and the crafts that are being sold, deflecting all the cautious stares as our bodies claim rebellion, the joys of reckless limbs are what belong to you.

All we care about are the ways of fingers interlacing, and how dark hair streams down my back like satin ribbons on hand wrapped gifts. You weave your smile around the shape of Yipppeee! And, we holler it together. I am not sorry for this.

I will not be sorry when school reports tell me about the way you will fidget in your seat during class, and how the only thing you want to do with scissors is make your classmates paper crowns. I will tell them gentle but firm about the itch that I have seen in your soul since you were only seven minutes old and reaching for more than the overhead lights and my face looking down at you. I will tell them so they know. You are insurmountable.

You will scale mountains instead of opening briefcases. You will always be breaking down windows, despite the open doors. You are constantly showing me how to make illegal u-turns in my heart. And for that, I am so damn grateful.

No, I am not sorry for you, because happiness is a choice we make together.