Where My Heart Lives

Tuesday night at our first ever t-ball academy. Owen easily joins the cluster of players listening to a coach, and when directed, runs with the pack to the far side of the field for warm-ups. I watch his little red-jacketed form do stretches, then chug along as they all run a lap (and smile as he cuts the loop short in order to keep up with the bigger kids).

Back to the corner across the way from me, and I can no longer see him as the group once more crowds around to listen for their next activity. I hear another parent saying they will need their glove now, so I start across the field to take his to Owen.

He's not in the small group breaking off in a trot to the left, not among the ten or so boys streaming by me on their way to a practice station flag. And then I see him, a few yards away, crying in the arms of another mother. I quicken my step and hear her ask him what color his mommy is wearing; as I come into their line of sight Owen leans towards me as I reach out for him.

He nestles his wet cheeks into my neck as I rub his back and ask what happened. A few deep breaths and moments later, he manages to whisper "I couldn't see you ... I thought you left me!".

Oh, my sweet baby. My heart twists as I imagine his growing panic when he looked around and saw only faces he didn't yet know. I can picture the look in his eyes as the fear crept in. I hug him tight and promise I'll never leave him (please God, allow me to keep that promise for a long, long time). I wipe his face and talk softly to him until he feels safe again.

We go to the first station together. I gently encourage him to join the group of six boys and follow the coach in a throwing exercise. Owen participates timidly, looking over his shoulder for me often as I stand a few feet behind. He and I make our way through a few more stations this way, until once again he is smiling and laughing with the boy next to him, running to the next flag with the rest of his group when the whistle blows.

The night ends well. He is happy, if a little tired and cold, and I think his comfort and confidence will grow in the next academy. But days later, the memory of his tears still pains me. And I know that next time I'll be sure to stay in his sight from the start.

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Yesterday morning we walk into school and his two buddies, Brice and Ben, come running up immediately to engage him in their favorite game of "My favorite color is ...". Owen joins right in, laughing at what they all find hysterical.

I help him hang up his jacket and backpack, and kneel down for our routine hug-kiss-"I love you" before leaving. But for the first time, he's already started to turn away, a grin on his face, big eyes sparkling in obvious anticipation of more fun with his friends.

"Owen, where's my hug?"

He comes back right away and gives me quick kisses, then runs off to join Brice and Ben. I know he's happy and it's wonderful to see him so engaged and making friends. I love hearing his laugh as I leave ... although there's a small tugging feeling in my chest. Because as much as it's good and right, it still sometimes feels like he's growing up too fast.

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Two days, two stories. Further evidence that my heart no longer lives inside my body.