"My Mom"

He wouldn't let me go, on a day when I had a meeting to get to and he was being picked up from school by someone else. I stayed as long as I could; it had been so long since I'd helped him with his homework on a day like this. We sat in the corner together between the classrooms where his schoolmates were being tended to by the after-school staff; the other children were having to do their homework on their own or with just one person in the room. When homework was finished, each child went from one room to the other across the hall. We were in the middle.

It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.

He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.

Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."

"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.

"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.

I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.

A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.