Being the mother of a man.


You are a mom only for a while. Of course, you will hold your children dear to your heart and they will do the same. That said, motherhood is a job that lasts twenty years, max. Now that my son has two decades of winters, I must admit that yo mama feels the baby blues so much that her stretch marks ache.

We met each other through his father. It was a beautiful Vodka night where I played Russian roulette with my egg and won. Obviously, I did not know my luck yet when I peed on the stick, three weeks later. I was sure I was trapped.

I was ready to call Morgentaler, as usual, when the fetus germinated and slyly twisted up my inner ear. “Hi,” he said. “Huh? What? Uh … Hello?” I answered.”You cannot throw me away, it’s me!” He added.

What to do? What to do? I was a down and out bum who was totally not ready for this. But the little peanut in my belly seemed to think that I would be adequate. And as my boy is super smart, I listened to him.

My Player’s Light went to oblivion and folic acid took over. I let my stomach balloon, threw my shoulders back and went full RESPs and RRSPs. I then propelled myself into the future, navel first. I was going to be THE mother. And he would be MY son. Forever united by the bonds of blood! Rhaaaaaa!!!!

The afternoon he finally came into my arms after a strange experience for a human being, let’s be honest, I recognized him right away. Even with his nose crushed by the tunnel of life. At that moment, I became everything to him. And he was everything to me. We bonded so much so, we became an alloy of flesh and Pampers.

For about thirteen years, our life together was dedicated to playing. We had fun making faces, boos and peek-a-boos! We hid and seeked, we stacked towers of Duplos and Legos. We amused ourselves by learning to read street names, to write in the snow and to add license plates. We disguised ourselves, bickered and tickled. We pushed hot wheels, threw Frisbees, kicked balls. We killed the bad guys in Baldur’s Gate, bid adieu to goldfishes and pet rats. We collected rocks and chased waves. We competed fiercely in board and card games until, inevitably, I lost my offspring to his much cooler friends.

I’m pretty pleased with myself that I understood that the fruit of my loins couldn’t depend on my unconditional love only. I figured this special time with my son was limited and that, someday, he would have to leave my bosom and my nest. I had to feed his ego and nurture his autonomy. Otherwise, he would end up still living in my basement at forty and that is not a legacy to give to my heir.

So I took every opportunity to sniff the top of his head like a druggy until his adolescence. Once a teenager, he stank so much that it wasn’t hard to give him space. Isn’t Mother Nature well made?

Both of us then turned into the best roommates, ever!! We had great complicity, somewhat neglected household chores and never really argued. We watched TV shows highlighting the plot errors, walked  with long strides so fast that no one could follow us and shared mad insides jokes.

Then, one day, we separated. It was over. He was gone…  I had just lost my baby, my child, my purpose in life and my longest relationship with a guy. It lasted not even twenty years…

Of course, we keep each other posted. He’s doing fine. He’s a nice young man with his own place, girlfriend, jobs and studies. We visit from time to time, so I can give him a little cash, talk about things that make us feel smarter than others and share a few laughs. But it’s not quite the same as before.

Becoming the mother of a man is the chronicle of a heartbreak foretold, it’s melancholy mingled with pride, a sweet and sour spleen.

Now, every time I say goodbye to him, I get on my tippy toes and sneak a little sniff of the top of his head, you know, to give me that little fix until the next visit…


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