The little boy standing at my feet had dark hair compared with the blond curls of my own child.  He tugged at my jacket and urged me to lean closer so he could talk over the ruckus of the pre-school.

“Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy,” he whispered.  “Can I come over to Patrick Corley’s house one day?”  

I patted his shoulder and smiled, saying that I would call his mother and we’d work something out.  He needed no more commitment to trigger a wide grin.  As the child scampered over to where Patrick stood, I felt a warm flush.  At 36, I had given birth to a golden bundle of unlimited joy.  At 40, I heard myself called something that I considered the greatest honor imaginable.

Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy was not, in fact, married; nor would she ever have wanted to be known by the married woman’s title even when she was.  A devout feminist nonetheless burdened by a massive Cinderella complex, I’ve been a daughter, a sister, a lawyer, an advocate, and a wife.  But being a mother afforded an unshakeable and unexpected sense of worthiness. 

I had endured a difficult 34 weeks to bring my son into the world.  Early in the pregnancy, I learned that I would be a single mother with no co-parent.  Two months later, I found out that I had been carrying twins because I lost one of them.  My dysfunctional body shook and quivered as my uterus expanded.  I went into labor in a courtroom in Louisiana, the contractions intensifying as our pilot made a mad dash for home in a Cessna 206 chased by a spring thunderstorm. 

I went into even more intense labor two days before a scheduled C-section, an experience that I cherished for several hours.  Then I became hysterical, demanding that the midwife end the progression to delivery as midnight on July 07th struck and I realized that the child might be born on his biological progenitor’s birthday.  The midwife gently refused, leaning down to assess the situation and shaking her head.  I kept writhing in pain until she decided that the lack of dilation would necessitate calming the situation until the following day.

Accordingly, at 12:59 p.m. on 08 July 1991, I assumed a new, exhilarating role.  My little boy entered the world unblemished and laughing.  They laid him on my chest and my uncontrollable tears flowed.  My friend Laura leaned over my shoulder with an awestruck expression, lifting one timid finger to touch a breathtakingly precious tiny hand.  I had no idea how I would serve in the new role.  But smiles overtook my sobs as the child made his gentle sounds.  The noises of the delivery room rose unnoticed around me.  I heard nothing but him; I saw nothing but him.  When they gently lifted my child from me to take him for testing, the warmth of his small body lingered along with the heady scent that only a newborn baby emits.

I have never, and will never, forget that moment.  I recall my first words, Laura’s exclamation, the chatter of the doctor and midwife as they counted sutures and scalpels.  The brightness of the overhead lights; the cool touch of the surgical drapes; the smiles of the pediatric nurses:  Everything lives in a heavenly oasis in the otherwise grim swamps of my aging and weary brain.

Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy.  In the three-and-a-half decades since his birth, my son has given me laughter in my darkest moments and wise words in some of my most confused hours.  He called 9-1-1 when I fell; got the neighbor when I broke my toes and couldn’t walk; and dragged a cover into the living room when I’d unknowingly had a TIA and couldn’t drag myself to the phone or my own bed.  I have boxes filled with lovely pictures that he drew in elementary school.  My windows sport laminated birds that he constructed out of crisp brown leaves in kindergarten and notes saying that he hopes I like what he could make for me at Christmas.  A binder holds his story of himself, written in careful block letters and thoughtful sentences.  I cherish it all.

We had some rough years, my son and I.  Decisions that seemed wise at the time proved foolish.  He rebelled in ways that astonished and frightened me.  But we made our way.  For the last decade or more, he’s walked a road of his own, with no guidance from me.  He has drawn from deep within himself to reveal a gentleness that I always saw, and I could not be more proud of him.  I do not know what the future holds for him but I know that he has navigated enough rocky waters with finesse to handle what life gleefully presents.

It is already July 09th where he lives though I have two more hours of his birth anniversary where I am.  I have not spoken to him today but I have confidence that whatever he chose to do, he embraced every moment of it.  I sent gifts, and a card with a dragon on it to honor that pre-school where, long ago, his friend begged for a playdate with my son.  One of my greatest joys lies in knowing that my son chooses his own path and has taken within himself the tools to put one foot in front of the other slowly, surely, and strongly.

I will always be Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy, and I don’t suggest that a grown man doesn’t need his parental unit.  But I stand in the shadows now, watching him soar in the dazzling sunlight.  He might falter, he might fall, he might fail.  But he will always and ever make his mother proud, by the man that he is, by the kindness that he shows, and by the unrelenting grace that he radiates.

Happy birthday, my son.  May you have many more, and may they all give you as much happiness as being Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy has brought to me.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®