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.
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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 older than my Vito. Maybe that's why I'm so affected.
After I read the article, I spent many nights weeping over Ronan as I read Emily's blog. Finally, Vince told me to stop reading his story because I was then 2 months pregnant with little wee Wiggle and Vince didn't want me so upset. "It might affect the baby," he said.
So I put away Emily's blog, rose above my grief, went about my life, enjoyed my Vito, gave birth to Iñigo, ended my magazine career, 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 Vito and Iñigo—where will they go to school, have we checked out preschools, have we bought education plans, what do we want them to be when they grow up. Do we feed them organic food, are we enrolling them 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 boys. But I have learned from Ronan's life and from my mother'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 didn't do that for my mother. It is my only regret.
I don't plan too far ahead. I think it's a waste of energy. My plans for my sons 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 the kids suddenly decided they wanted nuggets, then nuggets it is. I spoil my children silly because I always have this terrible thought that this will not last forever. Happily, Vince doesn't have my baggage. So he's the normal parent—he insists on a routine, he piles the grocery cart with yogurt and bananas for the boys, 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 boys have their father.
I do nurture dreams, but they are dreams that my boys will grow up to be wonderful men, happy with their choices, whatever they may be. I tell Vince, "I only have one dream actually, that I will like my kids and that they will like me." Yes. I love my kids, sure, but I also want to like them when they 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 Vito and Iñigo will be safe and healthy. I am very specific when I pray: "Protect them. Keep them safe from harm. Make them invisible to evil. Don't let accidents and sicknesses touch their bodies." Then I launch into a long list of what I hope God will protect them 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 their yayas and even their parents, and so on. Other than that rather specific list, I have learned to let go of every other hope. My dreams for my boys are vague. My plans are only for the here and now, and the plan is to love them every moment.
So I'm a strange mother that way. Maybe some of you think I'm a bad mother that way. But my sons are happy and healthy. They like shouting with joy. The days are always reverberating with exuberant shrieks. They are always tumbling all over me, Vince, each other, laughing. And their happiness and health are enough to convince me I am a good mother. For now. I'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
* * * * * * *
If you would like to help fund research on finding a cure for Tay-Sachs disease, kindly donate here.
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Good-bye, dear Ronan. Thank you for teaching me to love my sons.
*photos from Emily Rapp's blog, Little Seal
After I read the article, I spent many nights weeping over Ronan as I read Emily's blog. Finally, Vince told me to stop reading his story because I was then 2 months pregnant with little wee Wiggle and Vince didn't want me so upset. "It might affect the baby," he said.
So I put away Emily's blog, rose above my grief, went about my life, enjoyed my Vito, gave birth to Iñigo, ended my magazine career, 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 Vito and Iñigo—where will they go to school, have we checked out preschools, have we bought education plans, what do we want them to be when they grow up. Do we feed them organic food, are we enrolling them 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 boys. But I have learned from Ronan's life and from my mother'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 didn't do that for my mother. It is my only regret.
I don't plan too far ahead. I think it's a waste of energy. My plans for my sons 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 the kids suddenly decided they wanted nuggets, then nuggets it is. I spoil my children silly because I always have this terrible thought that this will not last forever. Happily, Vince doesn't have my baggage. So he's the normal parent—he insists on a routine, he piles the grocery cart with yogurt and bananas for the boys, 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 boys have their father.
I do nurture dreams, but they are dreams that my boys will grow up to be wonderful men, happy with their choices, whatever they may be. I tell Vince, "I only have one dream actually, that I will like my kids and that they will like me." Yes. I love my kids, sure, but I also want to like them when they 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 Vito and Iñigo will be safe and healthy. I am very specific when I pray: "Protect them. Keep them safe from harm. Make them invisible to evil. Don't let accidents and sicknesses touch their bodies." Then I launch into a long list of what I hope God will protect them 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 their yayas and even their parents, and so on. Other than that rather specific list, I have learned to let go of every other hope. My dreams for my boys are vague. My plans are only for the here and now, and the plan is to love them every moment.
So I'm a strange mother that way. Maybe some of you think I'm a bad mother that way. But my sons are happy and healthy. They like shouting with joy. The days are always reverberating with exuberant shrieks. They are always tumbling all over me, Vince, each other, laughing. And their happiness and health are enough to convince me I am a good mother. For now. I'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
* * * * * * *
If you would like to help fund research on finding a cure for Tay-Sachs disease, kindly donate here.
*photos from Emily Rapp's blog, Little Seal