Year Three

Well, here we are. In just more than three hours, Henry will be 3 years old. 

Or, to be technical, in 7 hours and 2 minutes I will mark precisely three years since I first looked into the  face of my baby boy. Man he's changed since that moment. He's less slimy and screamy for one -- most of the time, at least. He walks and talks and all that good stuff. Sometimes I want to set him free in the wild to be the feral child he so longs to be, but for the most part I'm pretty fond of the little guy.

I've already gushed about him -- just couldn't wait all the way until his birthday for that post. So today I'll meditate for a moment on another milestone taking place January 26: It's been three years since I became a mother.

Still not sure what to think of that. I don't think that becoming a mother makes me special or better than other people. I might actually be worse -- I had never threatened to sell anyone to the circus before I had children, for instance. I had a much lower tolerance for eating foods off the floor. I never felt the need to sit and stare at someone while they peed.

I'm not sure, either, how much being a mother has changed me, other than the aforementioned weird habits. I'm restless, still. Stubborn. Easily frustrated. Easily frightened, and maybe more so, since I'm now frightened for two extra small, vulnerable people.

But I would say that for all the times my patience has been tested, I'm becoming more patient. For all the times I've lost my temper because I can't control things, I've learned to surrender control and embrace stillness and peace. For all the times I've felt resentful, I've learned to be more grateful and joyful. It's a process, and it's not over.

I was 23 when Henry was born. Just 26 now. So I guess I'd call all this growing up. I never really understood before that parents grow up alongside their children. You hear that having a baby forces you to mature, and I suppose in someways it does. But I wasn't suddenly made complete when Henry was born. I was made more complicated.

I like to use space metaphors when I write about motherhood. Ideas about planets and orbits and gravity just fit so well the intensity of interactions between parent and child.

When Pluto was a planet, Charon was considered its moon. But Charon does not revolve around Pluto, and Pluto does not revolve around Charon. The Planetary Society explains it in such a beautiful way I won't bother attempting myself:

"Tidal effects that Pluto and Charon exert on each other have locked the two bodies into mutual spin-orbit resonance, meaning that one face of Charon always looks at Pluto while one face of Pluto always looks at Charon."

Pluto, locked there in that strange orbit, is an oddball in so many ways. It has a wacky, irregular orbit of the sun. The Hubble telescope has observed it changing color and brightness, has found new spots on it. It's dynamic -- ever-changing. But it never looks out on an empty sky.