My magical boy.
Before we ever meet him, we cry when we learn that the plans to sneak us into the auditorium to see him as a dancing candy cane have been dashed. The number was cancelled; such are the vagaries of the stage, but still.
We learn that we have been chosen to become the parents of three beautiful boys. A difficult wait: I already knew – I KNEW – that I was their mother. Days of anguish at the thought that a bureaucrat could separate me from the sons I’d never met. Nights of anger at this imagined injustice.
When the call comes, such tears and laughter and impatience and panic and love. We want them TODAY, we want our nine months to prepare the nest, we are bursting with everything. At one point my husband stops mid-stride: with a breaking voice he says, “My. Three. Sons.”
Four hours later a few dozen family and friends join us at Astoria’s back room to celebrate. That morning, I’d had a cyst on my back surgically removed. I have tears in my eyes with each hardy back slap, in wonder that I could have surgery on my back the same day the world wants to slap it or squeeze it in hugs. I laugh that nobody would guess I’m in physical pain, because tears are the norm this day. Laughter, love, joy, tears and pain.
We hand out Laura Secord “It’s a boy” cigars. We share their photos printed out and placed in a red folder. My sister presents a copy of Make Way for Ducklings and it’s perfect.
I carry everywhere my folded paper with their three portraits. I ride the subway and I open it like a triptych. I stare at each one, falling madly in love. I touch them, study them, memorize them. More than once I consider sharing the photos with strangers. I struggle to contain the joy, wonder how passersby are not blinded by the dazzle leaking out of me.
Though it never happened, I still picture Jake as that dancing candy cane. I can see him so clearly, dancing to music that I can’t hear. He’s shiny and delightful and magical.