dispatches from crazyville

i rock and sing to my son at bedtime. he falls asleep on my lap and i’m consumed with love for him. so sad knowing he’s growing up and by necessity away from me, independent. and i look forward to enjoying spending all his growing up time with him, as i am in love with this moment of rocking him in the dark. the thought of him moving away to college is choking me, and it’s far away, but it seems also like i’ll blink and he’ll be calling me from some far away place. and i won’t get to hold his body on my lap anymore. and i thought of mothers all over the place, next door, in darfur, in iraq, loving their children, and those children growing up, and they are us. everybody is somebody’s baby.

and suddenly the most important thing i know to do is to be kind to people. how can i be afraid of people when everybody is just the baby of someone? how could i be cruel to a baby?

for a couple weeks after this struck me, i was light. i felt buoyant. like i had figured out the meaning of life.

the idea of someone saying something mean to my son, which i know will happen as soon as his peers are constructing sentences, imagining that look of confusion and hurt on his face, crushes me. then i think of the mothers who lose their children in all manner of horrific ways, and then i think of war. and i know this baby will have to register for the selective service. and i think of him going to war. and then i know for sure i must work for peace. i must work for peace. then i think of the mothers whose children are perpetrators of violence, whose sons stalk women, or solicit sex from children, or who make the orders to crash the plane into the building. what of these mothers?

then i think about my mother. i’m her baby. she loves me this much.

then i think about this blog. anonymous, because i am ashamed, still, of the truth of my body, the scars on my arms, hands, legs. what if my mother knew?

then i think about my son. what if he knew? what kind of burden would that be to a person, to know his mother tried to destroy herself? and it is true. it is my story. i wonder if my mother was self-destructive.

then i imagine my son hurting himself on purpose so clearly i reach out to tell him to stop, to love his body, his little perfect body. don’t hurt yourself. i love you.

and i know why all the people were so upset. because when someone you love hurts, you hurt. and that’s why i didn’t tell anyone. i didn’t want to hurt people. but i would want him to tell me if he was hurting. i would want to share it. because i love him.

i try to imagine sharing my hurt with him. when he’s older. and, again, it scares the shit out of me. i don’t want to hurt him. but i don’t want to lie to him or hide from him either. i’m not talking about when he’s five or anything.

with this blog, i think a lot about the times when i’ve been self-destructive, and times i want to be self-destructive. and i want to treat myself with kindness and gentleness as i would treat my son, as i would want my son to treat himself. and others. and i want others to do the same. my students. my colleagues. my neighbors. the soldiers. women in prison. everybody.

i guess i don’t know what i believe about truth and love.