A Mother's Love

A Mother's Love            
           
     One fall morning in late September, Rodrigo lies in his crib next to the bed crying. I remove his toddler outfit to let him bask in the sun. He rolls in the tomato patch dirt of our apartment courtyard. Then I bathe him in the outdoor bucket which he loves. His belly jiggles as I tickle his tummy. His mirth makes me laugh too.  
     My hands rub him and wash him in Mother Nature’s baptism. I send water flowing across him. Bye bye baby blues for my son. My baby, in hopscotch training, kicks like a frog. When he kicked within my womb, motherhood became my religion.  
     I lift my wet baby out, while he wiggles and giggles. My precious boy feels the sun, my touch, and smiles along with me. My fingers caress the strands of his wet hair.  
     I heft him and use a towel to dry him. From there I cradle him and rock him in my arms. His eyes are half shut in a Buddha trance.  This is the part I call the Zen of motherhood. I stick my tongue out and gurgle.  
     Like poetry and painting, being a Mama is an art. Each brushstroke of mother to son bonding brings him closer to who he will become. But like an architect, I can see the foundation already in his eye glitter.  
     Unlike making buildings, I don’t have to plan each step. It comes to me as naturally as spring cherry blossoms. It is more like a spontaneous flamenco dance with me taking the lead. But sometimes we start with me miming his flailing arms and tentative smiles. Soon we hold hands and my touch sparks the mad gleam in his eyes. My “Muah, Muah” awakens him from sleepiness. How will I ever get him to nap?
     I take Rodrigo out to the front porch swing and sit down holding him.  Rodrigo mewls.  I draw him to my bosom where I sit on the porch swing. I lower the strap of my dress and let him, nurse.  
     I sit there, feeling Rodrigo’s tiny mouth nibbling with his baby teeth and sucking my nipple. With the eyes of a loving mother, I look down at Rodrigo and kiss him on the head. My baby will grow naturally as the lilies of the field.  
     I tell him “My boy you make me grin like a possum eating a sweet potato.” I continue, “Your Daddy is happy as a tick on a fat dog that I gave him a son. But you look plum tuckered. It is nap time. When you get older I will teach you these phrases and you will wonder what planet Mama came from.”
     Having reached five Rodrigo becomes a vegan just like his Mama. He drinks my carrot juice by the gallon. He asks me, “Mom if I drink too much carrot juice will I turn orange? And if I mix it with beet juice will I get purple and orange stripes?”
     I tell him, “No sweetie. But your eyes will work better, so you can see to wipe the last smudge of carob cookies off your mouth so you can tell Mama the cat ate them.”
     “But Mom, if we are what we eat then that makes me a vegetable.”
     “No sweetie, plant-based diets are ancient and healthy. Spinach has iron which makes you the boy of steel. You see the irony?”
     “I don’t know that word yet.”
     “Leafy greens make you strong. It seems counterintuitive. But it is true.”
     “Mom, please quit using those big words. I’m only five.”
     “Just saying it may not make sense but it is true.” While sautéing tofu in a wok, I am momentarily diverted.
     I catch him digging for gold in his nose and snacking on the nuggets and say, “Please, don’t do that.”
     He replies, “How come, boogers aren’t vegan?”  
     He hears me say, “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”  
     He scratches his head and says, “Mommy, where on earth do they talk like that?”
     “I’m not from earth. I’m from the heavenly body called Venus where all women come from. One day you’ll have a wife and you’ll cook for her. That is the new wave. Watch me and learn my boy. Now dig into your tofu and broccoli florets, guaranteed to keep you trotting like a prize stallion in the horse show of life.”