Stinky face
There’s a children’s book I’ve loved since I was pregnant with my oldest called “I Love You, Stinky Face”, by Lisa McCourt. It’s all of the kids’ favorite, I’m on the second copy. I’m very theatrical when I read it. Before Ian’s wake, I sat next to his coffin and read it with the other two kids. And I just realized why I’m enamored by it. Here’s an excerpt, “But Mama, but mama, what if I were a super smelly skunk, and I smelled so bad that my name was stinky face?” [would you still love me then?] “Then I’d plunk you in a bubble bath! But if you still smelled stinky, I wouldn’t mind. I’d whisper in your ear, ‘I love you Stinky Face”. It’s a very cute story about a mom loving her kid no matter what gross, terrible thing he becomes. And then all of the sudden it rushed over me and all I could feel was:
“But mama, what if I couldn’t talk, would you still love me then?”
“But mama, what if I caused stressful medical emergencies, would you still love me then?”
“But mama, what if my accident caused so much trauma, you almost committed suicide, would you still love me then?”
Damn, son. Then I’d talk to you through touch, I’d learn more about your condition then doctors, and I grow strong from that deep dark place.
But of course it’s easy to unconditionally love a child who had no choice in the matter. Of course it’s easy to love a beautiful toddler. It’s easy to love someone who can’t say words that hurt you.
“But mama, what if I (become a drug addict, fail out of school, marry someone of the same sex, be different from you etc) would you still love me then? Why does it become different then? Why did I grow up thinking and feeling that if I wasn’t exactly a certain way that people wouldn’t love me? And I came to realize it’s not because I wasn’t worthy of love, but because the people around me (my parents, grandparents, teachers etc) were taught that I was a measure of their success or failure as a parent or educator. That their worth was based in my perceived success. And in understanding the way I loved Ian when he couldn’t prove to people that I was a good parent, that I was still expecting my other kids too.
My kids are there own people. They will make their own mistakes, have triumphs that might occur outside of things I agree with (like pursuing certain professions that I find despicable), or be in relationships with people I hate. Although it feels like my responsibility to forge their path, to make sure they do the right thing, to make sure their “good”, it’s not. My only TRUE responsibility is to make sure they feel loved, nurtured and supported by me-as is.
When Ian died, he knew he was loved for exactly who he was. Maybe that’s actually the “heaven “ we’re striving for.