Is it possible to love someone you've never met? A little boy that I've loved since I first read his story on The New York Times died last week.
I have loved Ronan since that sad evening I learned that he had Tay-Sachs, a fatal genetic disorder, an incurable disease. His mommy, Emily Rapp, said she didn't expect Ronan to reach his third birthday. True enough, Ronan died aged 2 years and 11 months. He's just a few months younger than Clara than. Maybe that's why I'm so affected.
So I put away Emily's blog for a while while having Ibarra inside, rose above my grief of losing him later on, went about my life, enjoyed my Clara, ended my career at baker, began a new one, but Ronan stayed with me. In very many ways, Emily and Ronan's story changed how I parent.
Many parents ask me what our plans are for Clara—where will she go to school, have we checked out preschools, have we bought education plans, what do we want her to be when she grow up. Do we feed her organic food, are we enrolling her in music classes, dance classes, gym classes. When I just smile and say, "Oh, I don't really think about those things," a lot of the parents are dismayed at me. I guess, because of this blog, I have inadvertently built this image that I am a parent who wants nothing but the very best for her children, and for me to say that I don't really think—and therefore don't really care—about those things destroys that image.
I am a mommy who does want the best for my little one. But I have learned from Ronan's life and from Chio's death that there is only one thing certain—that the future ends in death and I must love the people in my life today, while they are still here, while I am still here.
I don't plan too far ahead. I think it's a waste of energy. My plans for my child involve only what they will eat for their next meal, if they'll go to the playground, if they'll take a bath. So if the plan was to eat squash but she suddenly decided she wanted nuggets, then nuggets it is. I spoil my child silly because I always have this terrible thought that this will not last forever. Happily, Malk and Prinze (the volunteering fathers) doesn't have my baggage. So they are the the normal parent—they would insists on a routine, he piles the grocery cart with yogurt and bananas for the kid, he checks the developmental milestones, he does Papa Preschool, he mulls over good schools, he saves for the rainy day, he dreams, he plans, he hopes. I am grateful my Clara have her Ninongs
I do nurture dreams, but they are dreams that my child will grow up to be wonderful person, happy with her choices, whatever they may be. I tell Malk, "I only have one dream actually, that I will like my kid and that they will like me." Yes. I love her, sure, but I also want to like her when she grow up. For example, I know my parents loved me but they didn't really like me—I was way too different from what they thought a daughter, a woman, would be. They didn't understand me, and you can't like what you can't understand. But they loved me, and that's all that really matters.
My hopes are only concrete in this: I hope desperately that Clara will be safe and healthy. I am very specific when I pray: "Protect her. Keep her safe from harm. Make her invisible to evil. Don't let accidents and sicknesses touch her body." Then I launch into a long list of what I hope God will protect her from: open windows, slippery floors, table corners and edges, the bath water, sick kids on the playground, accidents brought on by their exploring, impatience of her yaya and even her mommy (heheh), and so on. Other than that rather specific list, I have learned to let go of every other hope. My dreams for my Clara is vague. My plans are only for the here and now, and the plan is to love her every moment.
So I'm a strange mother that way. Maybe some of you think I'm a bad mother that way. But my Clara is happy and healthy. She like shouting with joy. The days are always reverberating with exuberant shrieks. She is always tumbling all over, each other of us together, laughing. And her happiness and health is enough to convince me I am a good mother. For now. I'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
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Good-bye, dear Ronan. Thank you for teaching me to love my one.
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