An appetite for delight

My children look like their fathers (yes, there are two of them, so what?).  It is an undisputed fact.  Blonde, blue-eyed, with perfect eyesight, one tall and thin, the other tall and sturdy, they are strangers to my average stature, my black-brown eyes, dark mane, and bespectacled feminine face.  No one would know they were mine.  Until they laugh, that is. 

Today I watched my youngest, not quite six months old, explode with joy at something absurd, and frankly mundane:  a tippy bowl, my clumsy fumbling.  He smiled; the biggest most delightful grin (toothless, of course) and looked at me with eyes shining, searching my face to see if I was sharing in his pleasure.

I thought: “Ahh, there I am.”  I live inside my boys in our adaptability under pressure, our explosive anger at life’s injustices, our deep grief at forced isolation.  Their abundant energy, their relentless curiosity, their unassailing charm: this is my territory.  My legacy.  My contribution to their DNA.

They may share genders, body bits and complexions with their fathers, but my boys’ presence on this earth, their aliveness, their luminosity, that is all mine.