A Love Story

The first time I ever saw my son flirt, he was almost three and surrounded by a cluster of nurses, a female doctor putting stitches beneath his tiny little chin. As late as it was, his blue eyes were wide and his tears had dried, crystal smudges on his cheeks. His chest almost visibly puffed with bravery as the pretty nurses fawned over him and called his name. I, his mother, felt almost an extra on the scene.

He’s now five, but just barely, by my accounting. Two weeks ago he informed me that he would be making a special valentine for “his love.” I felt my heart break a little when I realized that this special girl was not me, nor either one of his sisters. He’s had his tiny heart wrapped around a girl from our playgroup for a while now. And why shouldn’t he? She’s sweet, she lights up a room with her smile, and she tends to pay attention when he talks to her. Never mind that she’s an “older” woman – nearly 12, I believe.

For this girl, he labored, writing letters on his own and designing a heart with a special candy pocket. As he carried his own wallet to the store today, I caught a glimpse of the boy my baby is becoming. Too mature, all of a sudden, to hold my hand, he strode with purpose to the candy aisle and made his selection with confidence.

Much later, at the valentine’s party, he turned into my little guy again. “Mom,” he whispered to me, “Will you tell her I need to talk to her in private?” Part of me wanted to sweep him into my arms and tuck his candy heart away. “Later, baby,” I wanted to say. “Just hold on to your heart and someday, many, many years from now, I’ll let you give it away.”

I know, however, his heart will never be mine to give or to hold – not today, not tomorrow, and certainly not many years from now. So I whispered in her ear, that my son was hoping to see her in the next room. I was not even able to witness the first time he gave his heart away.