Mom Reminisces 'It Used to be Me'

— -- (Editor's note: This article originally appeared on Babble.com. It has been reprinted here with permission. The Walt Disney Co. is the parent company of both ABC News and Babble.)

I watch you, clinging to your dad’s leg, jumping up and down, literally begging to be seen, to gain the attention of the only other male in this household of women, and it reminds me of when it used to be me.

When I was your favorite, the one you sought, the one whose arms were your comfort.

I watch you, so intently playing with your tractors and your toys, a little man in the making, and I can remember when it used to be me.

The one who you wanted to play with, the one who could make you giggle so hard your dimples were flashing.

I chase you down, begging you for kisses as you squirm away, insisting my kisses are “so gross, Mom!” — laughing even while you are wiping them away — and I remember how it used to be me.

The one who gladly accepted slobbery kiss after slobbery kiss, the open-mouthed kiss of babies, the sticky kiss of a toddler, the shy peck of a preschooler.

I wonder when exactly it changed, the wind shifting subtly, when you first began pulling away from me, distancing yourself from the mama who grew you. It certainly wasn’t always that way now was it? I laugh at the memory of you, a baby so attached to me I had to put you in a hiking backpack to get my vacuuming done. You were so heavy, the weight of you making me wonder if there would ever be a time when my back didn’t ache and my arms would be free.

But of course, in the bitter irony that is motherhood, my arms are now free, aching to hold you once again.

And I remember when it used to be me.

Did I do this to you, my son? So many “Mom, watch this!” moments, so many “Just a minute, son” uttered back. You were the baby boy in a sea of girls, born at a time when I was drowning and desperate under the weight of motherhood. I wonder if I pushed you away, if it’s a bad thing that I taught you to be content to play quietly with your tractors while Mama got her important tasks done, while Mama just tried to breathe. I regret that now, even as I know that I did the best I could. I regret pushing you away, even for a second. Because really, what was more important than you?

It used to be me.

It’s your Daddy whom you love most in the world now, it’s his lap you will climb into, his limbs more spacious and accommodating than mine, the one who once held you inside of me. You follow him around the house, searching for him when he’s out of sight, begging me to find Dad when he dares to leave the room. You fear being forgotten, missing out on fixing something or building something with your dad, despite the fact that you are his miniature, right down to your own toolbox and work boots.

I feel a pang of guilt and sadness when I think of the baby we lost only months ago. Would it have been a brother for you at last? Would you have not felt so alone in the world had I been able to give you that sibling? Would your eyes have lit up and your arms outstretched, meeting the baby who would have been your playmate?

There is so much I can’t give you, but son, I promise, it used to be me. And that was enough.

Sometimes, I get glimpses of the way it used to be, when I hear the heavy tread of your feet into my bedroom. “Mom?” you will whisper. “Can I lay in your bed for a minute?” And you will snuggle down happily on the pillow next to me, going right to sleep and snoring just as loud as your dad. (Except, of course, I can’t exactly smack you on the arm like I do him.) So instead, I stay up and watch you, your face so much like the baby I once held, your features so very much the little boy you are now, your back startlingly strong, a shadowing of the man you will become.

I know I will watch you until you are the one looking down at me, maybe the one waiting down the aisle for another love, the one who will be shrugging off my questions and I know even then I will remember —

When it used to be me, the one who loved you first.

Read More on Babble:

This Is Motherhood

I Am Living Proof of “The Mother Effect” — and I Bet You Are, Too

I Hug My Depressed Teen Every Chance I Can, Because One Day I Might Not Be Able To