This morning, I woke to a small hand holding out a cup of coffee. It was hot and sugary just how I like it but nothing was sweeter than his smile. Somehow, the baby I once held in my arms was now making me coffee for Valentine’s Day. My heart nearly exploded.
He’ll be seven soon. Right now, though, he’s still six. I’m holding onto every moment of this tender age old enough to dry off after a bath and help his sister, but still young enough to ask me to snuggle him at bedtime. I study his face for traces of babyhood and keep his hair just a little long to delay the look of growing up.
He’s the one who first made me a mom. I still remember the pink hospital walls, my nightgown, and the dark-haired newborn I watched all night while my husband snored beside us. He is my first miracle.
As he nears the “Age of Reason,” questions start to surface. The other night, he asked, “Mommy, why did Charlie call me ‘Rich Boy’?” I froze. My own childhood memories stirred memories of growing up with little and never really knowing it until a fruit basket on Valentine’s Day showed me otherwise.
My mother once told me, when I felt insecure about what I couldn’t provide, “You can be anything you want to be.” I didn’t have a watermelon basket back then, but I learned how to make something meaningful from what we had.
So, I looked into my son’s eyes and said, “Being rich isn’t always about money. It can mean a life full of flavor like a rich dessert. We are rich because we have love, laughter, family, and each other. Some people have more, others less. What matters most is being thankful for the blessings we do have.”
He nodded thoughtfully, and I kissed his nose, tucked him in, and turned off the light. As I walked away, his voice broke the silence: “But Mommy… what’s a watermelon basket?”
And just like that, I smiled, knowing this was one of the countless moments I’ll treasure forever.
