The ghost umbilical cord

Oh Mr. Gibbons, sweet baby boy, where have these six months gone? They say there is a kind of ghost umbilical cord that connect birth moms and babes outside the womb, which gets stretched thinner and thinner until… Of course we will always be connected: you, flesh of my flesh, me, your first home. I will never stop being your parent, though that is true of your big brother Ben as well. It is something else this biology piece though, since my body still feeds you (less and less now that there are peaches, and avocado and rice and…), my cells still orient towards you like a sunflower to the sun, aware of your smallest peep across a busy party with friends or from the deepest depths of sleep. Since before you were even conceived I have been letting you go though, letting you be who you are, a person wholly your own, in my care but not “mine”. That is the hardest part, since you still feel so much a part of me. The part of the ghost cord attached to my guts aches from being tugged these days, seeing you juice a wedge of honeycrisp apple with your mighty gums, knowing you are watching the world more keenly, studying how legs and lips work, frustrated in your attempts to copy, glorious in your achievements with sitting and rolling and holding on. Your eyes are so open. You are ready to make the acquaintance of the world, eager to reach out and connect, happy to bask in the joy you spread as you face mirrors its smiles and laughter. You’re an everyday miracle, the beauty of Life’s intelligence. Everything you do marvels me, however mundane. Much as I aspire to foster your independence and applaud your every advance, I take secret comfort in the way you look at me when we’ve been apart, in how you wrap yourself around me when nursing. I am so proud of how hard you are trying and of how satisfying the world seems to you. In a week we will be helmeting you 23hrs a day to help reshape your noggin. Poor sweet darling, I apologize in advance. In the meantime, you may have noticed, I cannot stop stroking the soft skin and hair of your head. My little monkey baby, clinging on yet swinging ahead. Your big blue eyes taking the world by storm.

E

p.s. I was calling you Mr. Gibbons before I remembered that is a kind of monkey with lovely big eyes....