To Be A Mom Of A Boy

Miro in France

This morning making my son’s bed I thought about what it means to be a mom of a boy.

It means finding lots of trains and airplanes in his bed. I am still wondering how does he sleep with all these transportation devices. Exactly 3 trains and 11 airplanes.

It means feeding him breakfast while he circles in the kitchen with his tricycle. Almost a drive-through kind of thing.

It means inventing stories about tractor Mitia that only eats meatballs, but sometimes gets lost in the forest and has to live on the berries and mushrooms. A new story every meal.

It means hearing him debate with his sister that I am only his mom. He loves his sister, but he does not want to split his ownership of the mom. And then “my mom” pronounced in his sleep at midnight sound like the softest and kindest words somebody ever said to me.

It means fixing his broken railroads while he is at the daycare. I should be working in these productive hours, but I take 15 min to fix his railroads and the airport, so he gets excited when he comes home.

It means singing a song to him when he asks for it. Even if we are on a bus or in a cafe. Does not sound like a big deal, but if you ever hear me sing, you will know why I would not do it under any other circumstances in a public place.

It means not screaming when I see him standing on our dining table with a broom in his hand trying to hit an Ikea paper sphere lamp on the ceiling. It takes a breath to tell him, “Miro do not do it” and hug him and put him down on the floor.

It means letting him grow; Telling him medieval stories of cavaliers, princesses and noble men. I often find him fighting imaginary dragoons to defend mom or a princess. It means telling him about love through the story of The Little Prince.

It means to show him through love how to be independent. I love him as a mom, I love him because he is my son. And I will love him independently on who he becomes, what he does in his life or what he does not do in his life. This power of love will make him strong and independent, it will let him become whatever he choses to become. It will be with him for the rest of his life. It will be the base for his integrity, kindness, passion. And I believe that if I love him in this way, he will become all that. He will have the spirit of a Man.

Being a mom of a three-year old son is not about protecting, feeding or taking care of him. Really it is not, those are just tasks that anybody can do.  It is about giving him the freedom to grow into a Man. To show him that he is strong and passionate and gentle. To read him the lines that say that he is a part of the mankind and that his spirit is noble, not for himself, but for others. It is about passing him the love and light that will always be in his eyes, and that will make him act like a Man under any circumstances.

Being a mom of a boy means to be really thankful for everything he shows me in this world and within myself.

Barcelona, March 12th 2013

Fresh Bread

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Every day I go to buy the fresh bread to the closest bakery. It has become my morning ritual again. Years ago, living in Barcelona as a student, every morning I would go down the street to get my baguette and walk my dog. The lady at the bakery knew me well and would always offer a day old baguette to my dog. Banga, my dog, would get the baguette in her mouth and triumphantly walk home by my side, making everybody smile. A slim husky dog carrying a long baguette home. It is a funny sight.

After ten years in California I am back to Barcelona now. Every morning my two year old son and me go down to the corner bakery store to get our fresh bread for breakfast. It is the best start of the day. We go down the stairs, then through the hall and into the street. With his small hand my son shows me the way to go. He is proud he knows the way. We walk to the store and look at the bread. The store smells of the fresh bread and the bread crust. Bread crust is the best part of the bread. And we select the bread and receive it from the lady who already remembers us. She gives the warm bread to my son, we pay her and then walk home. It takes us about ten minutes to get the bread. And as we walk with my son from the bakery and I am holding his small hand in mine, I know that these are the best ten minutes of the day.  They somehow structure my day and make the rest of it perfect.

Barcelona, July 14th, 2012