By Stacy Heenan Biscardi
When my baby is pounding his plastic aquarium in his crib with his
feet and I walk into his pale blue nursery and tell him: Nooooooo,
he looks up at me with a huge gummy smile, forcing me to
smile too.
It's a moment I wonder if he'll remember when he's older.
My mother always reminds me of the time when I was three years old,
coloring angelically in my bedroom and I got so engrossed in my
creation that I colored off the page of the coloring book and right up
my bedroom wall. When my mom walked in and saw the proud look on my face, she had to laugh and tell me how beautiful my drawing was.
As my son grows up, I hope he appreciates how encouraging I am of his
unorthodox antics, too. Last week at music class, I clapped and hooted
while he did the Riverdance on top of a large African drum, while all
of the other babies, sitting next to the drum, patted it softly with
their fingertips. "That's right, you do your thing, buddy boy," I told
him, smiling.
I am sure I will remember that moment for years to come.
When I speed my baby around in a shopping cart or challenge him to a
screaming contest at the dinner table, I hope he remembers his Mom-mom
and Pop-pop started these wild traditions and he is expected to pass
them on. And, speaking of tradition, I can't wait until he can run, so
that I can teach him another family tradition -- racing one another down
the halls of fine hotels to our assigned room.
I hope that my son always know how much joy he has brought to my life.
When he's older, I will tell him how I danced in the glistening sun
down
was pregnant.
I will tell him how his daddy blabbed to restaurateur, Stephen Starr,
a perfect stranger, "Hey Stephen, I'm going to be a dad and you're the
only person who knows!" simply because he was so thrilled that he had
to tell someone right away.
I'm sure he will laugh when I tell him
that his daddy bragged to toll collectors on the expressway and long
lost college professors via email, weeks before we told our family and
friends the great news.
I wonder if my son will recall how I drove to work each morning,
rubbing my belly, saying aloud what a psychic I met at a wedding
suggested, We don't care if you're a boy or a girl, we already love
you so much, and we can't wait to meet you!
I will never forget how his busy tiny feet would poke me in the sides as I played music for him from every era, calling out the song titles and artists' names
like Casey Kasem.
I hope that he remembers dancing with me to Jason Mraz, Bob Marley,
Michael Jackson and yes, the Wiggles, the way I remember waltzing with
my Grandmother up and down her linoleum kitchen floor.
I hope that my son remembers how his daddy carefully poured warm water
over him, as if he was basting a turkey, while he reclined in his baby
tub. I hope he knows that his daddy perfected the "Biscardi Burrito,"
otherwise known as the swaddle, to make sure our baby was always warm.
If I buy my boy fuzzy red feet-in pajamas until he is 15, like my dad
used to do, I hope he forgives me.
When my baby's tiny fingers trace down my face, reminding me of the
way my dad used to trace an imaginary line between three beauty marks
on my cheek, I hope he sees the sparkle in my eye.
I hope that he overhears me on my cell phone, while he's snuggled up
in his car seat, telling his daddy, numerous times a day, "He's just
the sweetest boy in the whole world."
I hope that he remembers me wiping his tears and rocking him in his
soft blue glider, the way my mom rocked me on her lap, when I was 29
years old, on the day my grandfather died.
I hope that he never forgets the thousands of times I have kissed his
hands, the way my grandfather kissed mine the last night of his life.
I hope that my boy always remembers that he willed his way into the
world and truly earned his name. I wonder if he'll remember the very
first time I held him and whispered to him, I'm going to love you
every day for the rest of your life.
Will he forget these tiny moments or will they somehow shape the
mosaic of his soul?
When he lays his head down, sucks his thumb and snuggles with his
blanket, listening to lullabies playing softly in his crib, and me and
his daddy laughing in the next room, I hope that he feels the love all
around him and thinks to himself one word:
Unforgettable.
Stacy Heenan Biscardi lives with her husband and son in Penn Valley