Last Thursday, I introduced my nine-year-old son to the other boy in my life.
I have prepared for this day for months, if not years. A few times I have teetered, thinking it is time, then changed my mind at the last minute. What if my son doesn't like him? What if he doesn't see what I see in him? So I have put it off, thinking it is better to wait, until my son is a bit older, more mature, able to understand this all-consuming love I have and not to reject the other boy.
Last week though, it was time. I prepared myself mentally all day. I talked myself through possible scenarios, of my son saying "no, I don't want to meet him", or of him locking himself in his room and refusing to try. I reminded myself that he is just nine, that he might see things differently to me and that would be okay. But really, my heart was telling me it needed my son to feel at least some of what I feel.
So, after school, with the fire lit, the other children busy playing, I called my son over. I put my arm around him as I told him how I felt. I bared my soul to him, of nights I had spent crying over this boy, the times I had hidden away from everyone else to spend an extra half-hour with him. I told him that the boy had shaped me, made me who I am, and I was hoping that now my son would meet him and, at the very least, like him, just a little bit.
I told him that if he didn't, it was okay. I would understand. There was no pressure, just a mother's hope that her son would get to experience a friendship that would be long-lasting and give him comfort when he needed it.
