My son will be three months old on the 9th of August. He has worn a onesie everyday of his life. I mean, dressing him has been so easy compared to the girls. Put him in a plain onesie and some socks and he’s “GUCCI”. When dressed in the basics, boys seem to strike a perfect balance between ethereal charm and macho. His boyhood takes me back to my fashion aesthetic from the 90’s when baggy jeans, baby tees, and a “hat 2 da back” was the go-to. I don’t know why, but the 90’s tomboy/’round the way girl in me just connects with this little guy. He brings a cool out of me– an eclectic mom swag that I adore. Without trying, I find myself talking to him with a deep and full sound, “What’s up, man.”, I say with my chest. There’s this natural instinct to call him a man; and yet, my exchanges with him are treated with TLC. We often stare at one another all dewy eyed. Heaven on earth is looking into his eyes and watching him smile boyishly with a peeping tongue. The love I have for him, my son, is so precious. So sweet. So resounding. I can’t explain how grateful I am for his health and happiness. I cried so much when I was pregnant with him that I actually worried he would be affected somehow, but he turned out to be the most pleasant baby. He is literally like the calm, earthy smell after the rain.
I’m happy to say that I’m in a much better place emotionally and spiritually now that my hormonal balance has been restored and I’ve stopped being on edge about everything. I knew I was ready to hit my emotional and spiritual reset button when I declared that I was going to get my hair cut. I screenshotted a couple of pictures across the summer of classic, layered bobs with an Aaliyah-inspired swoop. I do this every couple of years…same cut…same motivation: to start anew. I believe hair holds a lot more energy than we know. Experts even say that there’s a direct correlation between what’s going on on our heads and what’s happening in our lives. I remember being in the beauty salon and watching my hair get chopped, swept, and tossed. I thought about all the nights I was too exhausted to comb and detangle it. Too emotionally drained to cover it with a satin scarf. In that pile of hair was months of angst, anger, insecurities, and delusions.
A few chops, and instantly, I started over.
I look at myself now, in the misty blue photos of me and my son, and I already feel like we’ve been through a lot together. Maybe the mellifluous tears I cried during pregnancy had a way of connecting us like music to an eager ear. Maybe, in utero, he had a way of comforting me. Maybe he knew then. Maybe he knows now. Maybe I’m stronger because of him. Maybe raising him is making me a more loving woman. Maybe he will know me better than anyone. Maybe it is a different kind of bond. 💙
Clinnesha is a writer, wife, mom, and social entrepreneur who feels most accountable to southern, black citizen-artists, elders, children, and families. Her work is at the intersection of arts, culture, innovation, and community.