My son’s affirmation ended my lifelong fears as a mother | Opinion

I often write, in rather glowing terms, about my relationship with my two sons, but my intention is not to brag. Rather, I am marveling that I was made the mother of these two authentic, amazing, caring, empathic, funny — sometimes crazy — entertaining human beings.

And I write now about a few words, seemingly ordinary and without great import, spoken by my son, Douglas, at a time when I badly needed a kind word. I don’t think I could have verbalized exactly what I needed, and yet, what he said was beyond the pale in its importance to who I am.

What my son said rocked my world and released me from a misapprehension that had colored my perception of him and the job I had done as his mother for decades.

On this particular occasion, I was sitting in my car with my cellphone in my hand. The conversation that had just ended centered on a piece I had written. With my heart on my sleeve, I had listened as my creation was maligned and found woefully lacking by a new colleague.

Instead of taking this as constructive criticism, I took a giant leap into territory never intended by my colleague and thought, “He hates me, and I’ll never be able to write again.”

I was crushed.

As I sat there sobbing, I needed to speak to someone. The rule in my relationship with my two grown sons has always been, “If you need someone to hold your hand, call Jason. If you need dispassionate facts, call Douglas.”

I called Jason. He did not pick up.

Still sobbing, I hesitated for a moment. Should I call Douglas?

Taking a chance — because I really needed someone — I typed in Douglas’ number. He promptly picked up with, “What’s up, Mom?”

Through gulping sobs, I said, “I tried to get Jason, but he didn’t pick up, so I’m calling you, and you have to be nice to me.”

“Okay, Mom, I’ll try,” he said.

Still blubbering, I began with, “A reader didn’t like my piece. He hated it. I’m never going to be able to write again. My career is over before it has even begun.”

Without hesitation, in his most authoritative voice, Douglas said, “Mom, what do you care what that fool thinks? I would have had the most boring childhood if you hadn’t been my mother.”

The most important words he could have spoken made more precious because Douglas always spoke truth without qualification. This was his truth about me and the most important job I ever had any part in.

When Douglas began to mature from a precocious and adorable child into a more masculine teen, a series of incidents from my childhood and young adulthood were reactivated, and I found myself afraid to experience love and attachment to this newly distinct male person. Feeling confused, conflicted and torn, I masked this reaction to Douglas as best I could, and I entered an extended therapy relationship with a remarkable psychiatrist.

With help from an empathic professional who extended himself beyond expected boundaries many times, I eventually healed from old wounds that had erupted and marred my perceptions of the people I loved most. But something lingered and ate at me despite the hard work of healing: I was never sure I had been a good enough parent to Douglas while I was preoccupied with the difficult work I was doing with my therapist.

This feeling of doubt persisted into Douglas’ adulthood. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow failed him.

His declaration that he “would have had the most boring childhood if you hadn’t been my mother” was balm for a very old wound. Love and admiration for this young man flooded me as I sat in a car on a hot day in Modesto with my cellphone in my hand. I had not failed.

In “The Little Prince,” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, the Fox says to the Little Prince (who is looking for friends,) “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; that which is essential is invisible to the eye.”

Douglas saw with his heart. In doing so, he saw my heart. My beloved firstborn saw the best. And he’s right. Our life together has never been boring.

Bunny Stevens lives in Modesto, her hometown, and has served on The Modesto Bee Community Advisory Board. She is the opening courtesy clerk at the Safeway supermarket on McHenry Avenue and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. Reach her at BunnyinModesto@gmail.com