It’s our first day back from the hospital, and my infant son is wailing in my arms. My own tears blend with his as I attempt to nurse him. We’ve been awake all night, and a love I’ve never known washes over me, yet I can’t shake the longing for my life before him. A new teddy bear rests on the dresser in his nursery, looking a bit forlorn. I walk over, caressing its ears as I finally establish a rhythm with his feeding.
At 1, he’s taking his first wobbly steps. He glances back at me with every movement between the coffee table and the sofa. I hold back my excitement, trying not to distract him, but it’s a challenge. His pride is palpable, and mine swells as I realize that the baby growing in my belly won’t experience the same tender moments he has. I reach for him, clutching his cherished teddy bear as he strolls over. I scoop him up and express how proud I am of his newfound mobility.
By the time he turns 2, he races towards me, teddy bear in tow, exclaiming, “Mama, Mama!” He’s eager to share how he fed it raisins, wanting me to absorb every detail. As I nurse his sister, I can only give him a fraction of my attention. He doesn’t seem to notice now, but I fear he will one day. Sitting cross-legged at my feet, he continues to feed Teddy.
At nearly 5, he bursts out of kindergarten, beaming with excitement. “I had so much fun, I didn’t even think of you, Mama!” I feel a wave of relief wash over me. He was anxious about the day, but the realization that his world is expanding beyond our home stings. That night, I tuck him in as he recounts his day, clutching Teddy tightly.
He’s 6 now, and I stand outside his classroom, watching him showcase his latest experiment. He’s animated, a little silly, and full of confidence, completely unaware of my presence. Although he no longer carries Teddy everywhere, he insists on sleeping with him every night.
Fast forward to age 9. I greet him after basketball practice, the scent of something unpleasant hitting me as I kiss the top of his head. It’s time for deodorant, and I can’t help but feel a lump in my throat. I had anticipated this day, but not so soon. He beams, asking, “Mom, can you smell me?” I mask my emotions with a smile, grateful he brings one to my face instead of tears. That night, I show him how to apply it, suggesting, “Maybe Teddy needs some too?” He rolls his eyes, clearly too old for such silliness.
At 11, his room becomes increasingly chaotic, and he’s started to retreat into his own world, preferring friends over family. I walk into his room, and the familiar scent of his babyhood lingers. I spot Teddy tucked beneath his bed and place him back on the mattress, thinking he’ll wonder where he went. But when I return the next morning to drop off laundry, I discover Teddy shoved into the closet.
Now he’s 13, and as dawn breaks, I catch a glimpse of him in the bathroom, but he looks less like my little boy and more like a young man with broad shoulders. I whisper a soft “Good morning, sweetheart,” receiving a mumbled response. He heads out for school, and while I know he should wear a heavier coat in the frigid temperatures, I let him go without it. It’s his choice now. I find Teddy in his room and hold onto him, keeping this secret close. I won’t share it with him until he becomes a father, facing children who mumble instead of converse and don’t need Teddy anymore.
Perhaps then I’ll tell him how he was ready to part with his beloved bear long before I was.
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In summary, as my son matures and sheds his childhood comforts, I find myself holding onto remnants of those early days. While he may not need his teddy bear anymore, I cherish the memories and lessons learned from our time together.