"If I was a flower growing wild and free all I'd want is you to be my sweet honeybee..."

“If I was a flower growing wild and free
all I’d want is you to be my sweet honeybee....”

“Mommy it’s our song!” Kostyn screamed, dropping his drum and drumstick and flying toward me with abandon. I turned to face him just in time to see him draw up his knees and jump in my direction, his arms outstretched. It was a fumbling catch but a catch nonetheless.

“Aaaaaghh!” I said, tripping between annoyed and thrilled. “You have to warn Mommy, honey, you’re getting so big.”

“It’s our song,” he said matter-of-factly, his eyes bright and his head bobbing up and down, willing me to start dancing.

It was, after all, our song. For no particular reason than I happened to have gotten my hands on the “Juno” soundtrack when he was a baby, and quickly became addicted to it, playing it nonstop for several weeks. And something about the sweetness of this tune — “All I Want Is You” by Barry Louis Polisar — always caused me to scoop him up and twirl him around. And I’d whisper, “This is our song.” Because back then I was a new mom who thought she needed something tangible, audible, to cement a bond between mother and son. I thought I needed to plant a seed that would root and grow to keep us connected always.

“And if I was a tree growing tall and green
all I’d want is you to shade me and be my leaves.”

I used to dance with him in my arms until the song was done, and then we’d sidestep over to the stereo and hit “Rewind.” And when it finished, "Rewind" again.

But this time I felt myself straining under his weight a little bit. He didn’t sit in my arms or curl around my waist so easily, like he used to. His eyes were still dancing, humming, happy to be in Mommy’s arms for “our song,” but I was imagining how it would feel — how it will feel — to be holding his hands instead of his whole body when we dance. I wondered how it will feel to watch his feet move to the music across from mine. I wondered how it will feel when he takes the lead, and I follow.

I wondered how it will feel to watch him dance with somebody else.

I was reminded of that book “Let Me Hold You Longer,” about how parents often note the first but not the last time a child does something. (Parents: If you’re not familiar with this book, get it. Read it. Sob.) I knew this wasn’t the last time we’d dance to our song. But still, I scooted us over to my computer and took this:

And then I twirled away, jumping in circles to watch his eyes dance and his open-mouthed smile, silently vowing to do more upper body weight-training at the gym. Or just hit “Rewind” more often.

“All I want is you, will you stay with me?
Hold me in your arms and sway me like the sea.”