I’m pretty sure that I am the only person to have ever cried at a Laurie Berkner concert. Well, the only adult, anyway.
What the heck is wrong with me?
On second thought, don’t answer that. (And thank God my husband can’t interject through a blog post.) I mean, I’m 11 weeks postpartum, so I’ve got a whole lotta hormones surging through my body. And when it comes to my kids, postpartum hormones or not, my feelings are always a little…intense.
But tears at a kiddie-music concert? That was beyond crazy, even for me.
I’d bought these tickets months ago, pretty much as soon as it was announced that Laurie would be playing in the city. My son has loved her since before he could talk, and we regularly stage little concerts in our house with her DVDs playing in the background. (I’m Laurie, he’s Bob.) But the real reason I’d wanted to go? It would be our first solo Mommy-son date since the baby had been born.
Even though he adores his little sister and he’s been a ridiculously awesome big brother, I’d been seeing little flashes of how much he’d been missing alone time with me, like when we’d go out for 15 minutes to get pizza ingredients or when we’d read books together before bedtime while the baby was with Dad. I constantly tell him that he’s still my special guy and that nothing would ever change that, not even a new baby in the house, but as they say, actions speak louder than words. This day was going to be just us, just like it used to be.
The concert was just as great as the others we’d been to, and we had awesome seats—fifth row! For the first few songs, I wasn’t allowed to sing or bop along (um, am I that embarrassing already?), but my little 3-year-old dictator eventually eased up on the rules.
And this is when things started to take a turn for the weird. During one song, he was dancing in the aisle, and then started venturing toward the stage. He looked at me, hesitating and waiting for permission, and I smiled at him and told him to go ahead. He did and didn’t look back.
Two songs later, the band transitioned into “You’re My Family.” Laurie told her little groupies to find the family member they came with and give them a hug, but my little guy stayed right where he was—in the front, making new friends and hanging on her every word.
When you’re in my heart, you’re in my family
When I’m in your heart, I’m in your family
When you’re in my heart, you’re in my family
When I’m in your heart, I’m in your family
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers
Cousins, friends, sons, and daughters
Uncles, aunts, and grandparents
I’m so glad you’re my family!
And then I started crying.
He was off on his own, so independent, so brave and so bold, so much his own person. But he was still my baby, MINE.
I was so proud. He was off on his own, so independent, so brave and so bold, so much his own person. But he was still my baby, MINE. That’s what every fiber in my body felt, as I fought the urge to run to the stage, scoop him up, plop all 43 pounds of him on my lap and smother him in kisses as I held him close.
What happened to the little boy who wanted to cuddle so close to me, he was practically attached to me? Who giggled when I tickled him and loved when I sang like a lunatic to him in public? Who soothed himself with my hair by holding it and brushing it against his face? Who thought I was the most fun person on the planet?
What happened to my baby?
He was right there, but he was suddenly so far away.
I stayed rooted to my seat, keeping a watchful eye on him, and sang along to the music by myself. I must’ve looked like a crazy lady, singing along to Laurie Berkner without a kid nearby, but, well, you can’t not sing along to her music.
Another song or two passed, and then my little man—who was starting to looking very much like an actual man in my eyes—turned around, smiled at me with that big, goofy smile of his, and made his way back. In fact, he ran to me and gave me a big hug.
There was my baby.
I hugged him back and didn’t want to let go, but he inevitably wiggled away to start bopping to the music again. (This time, mercifully, next to me.)
I know that someday soon—too soon—he won’t want to do any of this with me, that it won’t be cool to hang out with Mom all the time. And to the outside world, he will be oh-so-grown-up. And I’ll be proud and I’ll let him go because that’s what’s healthy and right and, God, sometimes I hate being so grown-up and good and rational.
Because in my heart and in my head, he’ll always be that snuggly, cuddly, delicious baby who I never want to let go.
Tell Us: When did you realize that your baby was no longer your baby?
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