DJ Cheeks

but i only blinked

When Rowan was 3 days old and we were finally released from the hospital, his bilirubin levels now stable, they sent a mustachioed man to take me to the exit in a wheelchair.

“It’s okay, I don’t need that, I can walk,” I waved him away, smiling, my vagina still thoroughly pulsating with pain.

“Sorry, it’s policy. Hop in.” Rowan and I settled in, the vinyl seating sticking to my new mom thighs, him looking like a tiny elf in his green newborn hat, suspicious of this brave new world where waffles and syrup were no longer on tap every 12-24 hours.

We chatted on our way down to the car, and when we said goodbye he said, “See you in two years!”

I laughed. “No, I will never do that again.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what they all say. And we see eeeevery lady again again in 2-3 years.”

“Sir?” I grabbed his wrist. “I am NEVER coming back here.” He laughed good-naturedly again. Little did he know, in about 30 days I would be looking into adoption for our second child. Talk about a supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again!

Last night, I brought him home from the hospital, and today, he turns 9. If someone can explain that whiplash to me, I’d appreciate it.

When he turned 6, I cried every day for weeks. I thought the best of parenthood was over, those sweet delicious early years. Little did I know then, his age 7 and 8 would be the most fun yet. I would discover what an amazing little traveler he is. How game he is for any type of exploration, any type of fun. All of the FUSS of the first handful of years having dissipated, and in its stead ease, enthusiasm, and a real curiosity for it ALL.

He is still so little, thank goodness. He is still a phenomenal cuddler. He smells delicious still, though when I comment on how great his armpits smell, he grins and his eyes grow wide: “I’m close to getting puberty!!!!!” He still wants me to read to him every night. He has memorized the details of every Greek myth under Helios. He is several grade levels ahead in reading and math, and his teachers overwhelm us with praise. He escorted a frog to freedom across a field trip path last week, while other kids were trying to step on them. He makes friends with all the dogs at the dog park.

He asked my friend Rachael to be his “special person” to visit on Grandparent’s / Special Person Day, and when I was cuddling him that night, I said “Oh, I forgot to remind you not to run away and leave Rachael alone while you go play with your friends, but to stay with her, show her everything you’ve made, respect that she’s taken time out of her workday to come be your guest at school,” and he said “Mommy, what are you talking about? Of course I did that. You didn’t need to tell me.” Age 8 is when I really saw all the absolutely fucking millions of times I’ve corrected his behavior start to morph into a creature that doesn’t do that annoying ass behavior anymore, or at least not quite as much.

Sometimes, on the weekends, he asks me to play “Air Horn Remix” on spotify and he’ll take his underwear off, put them on his head, and frenetically dance naked while referring to himself as ‘DJ CHEEKS.’ Last weekend, he and Zoe made signs around the house for a major show but then fought about something inconsequential and it never materialized. Still waiting on my refund from TicketButtMaster.

I feel the same way I did about him when he was a toddler: I’m legitimately proud whenever he wants to hold my hand, I feel so lucky that this wonderful creature loves me so much. When I decided to come home a week early from my writing residency in Sweden last fall (for various reasons, but mostly because they were having a h-a-r-d time with me being gone so long), I didn’t tell the kids. I walked in to surprise them at the very moment Rowan walked into the hallway, catching me opening the front door.

MOMMY???? he screeched, not believing his own eyes. I ran to take him up in my arms and he burst into the most powerful tears - tears of relief of me being home at last, I suppose, tears of joy. He sobbed that way in my arms for a long time. I have basically nothing profound to say about the love of a child and everything profound to feel about it. I’m just so, so very lucky to feel it.

He is 9 now, and in many ways, so am I.