"You're my son, you're my angel"... went the old song.
My ears were ringing (possibly from the angel choirs) when you finally decided to come out in this world. You've been trying to kick your way out since the third month, but for some reason you stayed put till 10 days after my due date. I was waddling like the Moby Dick, not in water, but dripping water. You waited for a 41° C day to get stuck on the way out. Good that you will never experience how this feels, men are known to be the weaker with pain.
After this 10 months pregnancy prison, I was ready to break out in a loud rendition of "Hit the road, Jack!" by the time you finally showed up. The midwife knew you'd be a boss one day, pointing out how calmly you were resting tiny cheek on hand. Settled in there like boss, no wonder you were in no hurry to come.
And then you started crying.
And didn't stop until sometime in 2nd grade.
You're not fit for a singer, dear. With this sounds of yours, you can't hit a tone even by whistling.
You’re not fit for a doctor as well. Pneumonias got you three times per year, three years in a row. If there is holiday, we are in the hospital. I had my purse, the diapers bag and the TV waiting by the door all the time, because you won't stay quiet without cartoons. You screamed so much, that no nurse dared to bring food in the room. Good that we found a homeopathy doctor to put you finally alright, and we managed to put the TV back. Then the other things started. There was the week we went to the ER 7 times. You cracked your head, you sprained an ankle, you got wax in your eye, you fell from the sink and walked two weeks around with a red mark between your eyes, like an Indian girl, you stank up our life with a salmonella poisoning, you stared in the TV so much you got a stye, and you managed to knock a tooth all by yourself.
Your father had to call each day before coming back from work, to ask should he drive home or to the ER. You‘ve had enough from the hospitals. From now on, you should go there only to bring your newborns home. Not to see their birth, mind you. You'll probably pass out.
You're no fit for a pharmacist either. Too complicated, this stuff. Remember when you had belly troubles and we had to get you suppositories? You thought they're birthday candles and we'll light them up when we put them, and the whole neighbourhood got to know this from your screams. Then you asked can you fart, because your sister told you if you try, they may explode.
At first I could not wait for you to start talking, then I was praying for you to shut up. You kept telling me I'm awful. I asked you why, you said I should try to live with myself and see. I still don't see, but your father may know.
From the time you were kicking in my belly, I knew you'd like football. But unless you kick up to be transferred in FC Barcelona, so I can retire and live a bit, no use to even try. Better learn some chess, no injuries, you get a chair, mental exercises. You can still kick stuff, but as a hobby.
Don't get any tattoos, son. The other day you were wondering how they'll look on you, and your father helpfully suggested to give you few bruises to see how the blue looks on your skin.
Get a good wife, son. Don't choose a pretty one. You know, the nice apples are always bitten by the pigs. That's not for you. You need someone to cook, to mend your trousers, to raise your children. She'll have to, because you're still like in kindergarten - you eat, you sleep, and you shout for things. I will wholeheartedly give you to her. You know how to break dishes and glasses, you are able to sit 24h on the computer, you read book without tearing them, and you know when to become momentarily deaf. You're handsome, you’re clever, and you’re a smart ass. You'll be fine. I still don't know how you got by in school without reading your lessons. If you had, you could have flown in space already.
But you're not fit for an astronaut too. If you get married, you'll probably forget about me, and if you're in space you'll never even call. I won't be upset. It's good to mind your phone bills. I still remember that phone bill, when you were in grade 5, these 600 leva I’ll never forget.
You're not good for teacher, son. The way you read, you'll probably make the children completely confused. Don't believe when they say the teacher salaries go up all the time. After taxes they are actually smaller than before, but the neighbourhood grandmas must have something to gossip about, so there. You see how I get by with my school, don’t you? But the way it is, I'll probably live to a 100 years old, and if one of us, your father or I, dies, don't worry, I will help you raise your kids.
It's important to have a good job, dear. Not too tiring, no sweat, cause you don't want to catch a cold. Don't know what it will be, but you should get good money, because your father's salary from border customs is not enough anymore.
Even if you don't listen to me at all, at least be a good man. This way you'll meet good people too.
If one day I die, don't come to see me, no need to water my grave, you'll just waste gas. Take care of your wife and kids. Do you still remember that first letter you wrote to me, when I left you for 10 days at the village, and you finally stopped crying? "Mom, can I be full with sadness and love in the same time?"
Know, son, I will be looking at you with sadness and love from above. You cannot hide from mother's love, even if you try.