Diary of Weepy Mom - WARNING! Parents, Don't Use a Calculator While Parenting

I recently shared a conversation I had with my son on my personal Facebook page and I wanted to share it with you. Writing on my blog gave me a chance to expand the thought. 


On this episode of “My Kid Makes Me Cry” ...

My son, Marcello, was looking at his calendar on his iPad and reading off people’s birthdays. He paused for a while and then perked up with a revelation!


“Woah!!!! Mom, in the year 2100 I’ll be 87.”

I’m trying to process what Marcello is saying. 


2100?

“No, Marcello you’ll be eight in 2021, and you’ll be seven this year.”

“Yeah, mom, but in 2100, I’ll be 87. Isn’t that crazy, mom? I’ll be 87.”

“It is crazy. Wow! You’ll be 87 in the year 2100.”

Then this wave of emotion flooded over me, it was like a veil that was hot and soft, cloaking me in sadness. 

If Marcello will be 87, then how old will I be? ... I tried to calculate my age, but I suck at Math, so I took out my phone and calculated it!


The total flashed on to my cell phone screen ... I’ll be ... I’ll be ...dead! Anthony and I will both be long gone. 

Then I pictured my boys, Marcello and Rocco —both old men— Marcello, 87, and Rocco, 83. Two old men who have families of their own. I pictured Marcello sitting in his favorite part of the couch, I saw him reflecting about his 87th birthday, touching his chin with his pointer finger, and remembering that moment he told his mom when he was going to be 87. Maybe he will smile a bit - his eyes are even smiling through his thick glasses. 

I thought all of this in a span of 20 seconds.


Then I scooped him up and said with a huge lump in my throat, “When you turn 87, I want you to remember this moment. I want you to remember this (I gave him a big kiss on his cheek). I want you to remember how much we love you and how amazing you are.” My husband, Anthony, let out a little cry from the kitchen. I know the lump was in his throat too.

I squeezed Marcello so tight, and I didn’t want to let him go. 

Then I started to quietly cry so hard— I mourned us for a moment. I mourned our lives.

I mourned how life is so precious and how we are not promised time here. We are just visitors. As much as we want to stay, we are just not allowed to stay. 


I hope when he is 87, he touches his cheek and feels the ghost of my kiss, and he remembers that moment—when he was so little and saw the world in such a pure and innocent light, and how much his parents and brother love him, and how his eureka moment of seeing his age changed his mom forever. 

In the grand scheme of things, parenting is wonderful and parenting is vicious. Parenting reminds you of your mortality. It reminds you that children live for the moment, they don't plan ahead, and they don't look back.

I have thought of this moment every day since it happened, and I cannot clear the lump from my throat. 



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