Home of the Brave
I am very close to my mother. Old boyfriends have said I was unnaturally close. That would be why they are old boyfriends and not current husband, yes? Whenever I do something that is even remotely interesting, I really can't wait to hear what my mother has to say about it. She is my biggest cheerleader, my greatest ally, and still believes that I am the reason the world is spinning.
Even better, when my son does anything (listen, when your first baby burps by himself for the first time it is as though he has just recited the Gettysburg address, backwards, in Latin, while roller skating) I can call her up and we crow and giggle. Because we both know that he is the reason the world is spinning. We'll call each other up and say things like, "Okay, so tell me again how wonderful so-and-so said TheBoy was!" or "Tell me again what so-and-so said about TheBoy's latest pictures!" or just to sigh and coo over how wonderful, oh how marvelous the child is.
I imagine if I were to sing the National Anthem at the SuperBowl, or if my son were to do the same, my mother would be wigging out like we had just found the cure to cancer. And the lion's share of my delight in doing it, or in seeing my son do it, would be knowing how proud and excited my mom would be.
My greatest regret in life is that my grandparents did not know my son. I think they would have been as happy about him as my mom and I are, and I miss them the most when I have a tale to tell about him. It just doesn't seem right that they aren't here to share in the fun.
I watched Jennifer Hudson sing the National Anthem, last night, and all I could think was, "Oh, honey. Your mother and brother, and nephew would have been so proud of you. And I am so proud of you for being able to stand up there and knock that song out of the park, knowing that there is a family sized hole in your heart. You are a brave, amazing woman."
I don't know how she did that without crying.
