It was a sad occasion as I lugged my suitcase behind me into the bustling airport. Sad not only because I was leaving my sister, just sprung from the hospital after emergency surgery, but I was also giving up the one person who had wormed his way further into my heart.
My two-year-old nephew.
There he was, sitting in the backseat of the minivan, bawling his eyes out. He’s crying because he sees his auntie disappearing through the revolving doors of the airport. And I can’t help but be moved by his sign of devotion.
When I made the decision to come see my sister, I never figured that my nephew would even recognize me. With 1000 miles separating us, it’s hard to keep track of a face you only see twice a year. Indeed, when I came to pick him up from day care the first day there, he mean-mugged me, giving me this look like, “And you would be who?”
By day two, my nephew was holding his little hand in mine.
It warmed my heart.
Don’t get me wrong. The little tyke, with all his rambunctious and precocious nature, lived up to what they called the terrible twos. If he wasn’t running down the hall wild-legged, he was pulling every item in the house out for inspection–including my BlackBerry and pink IPod. He managed to fall on his head at least once, and put himself in time-out twice after being too hardheaded.
But I fell in love anyway.
It made me think about my own path to motherhood. At first, it was something I wasn’t sure I wanted to do. I was still in my 20s, my selfish stage, and felt like there were things I wanted to accomplish first. Then, when I began to think about how hard it is to raise a child in this world, I just couldn’t do it. Times are so different now, even from when I was a child, which was not so long ago. I remember when playing until the streetlights came on was a requirement. Now it’s too dangerous to send your child outside and the Internet is a child’s playground–and neither one you can trust with your offspring.
But the more I look forward to having a future with LeBron, the more I can see my life being filled with the pitter-patter of little feet. It’s better to have a child with someone who truly wants to have one, and not just because the condom broke.
