By Aubri Kaufman
Every time my three-year-old falls down, he tells me he “crumpled,” like, “I crumpled, mama,” and I hold back a laugh because I’m not sure where he learned the word. From me, I suppose, though in different context. He probably saw me ball up and toss some junk mail, crumple it, the way I saw my mother fold into herself over and over, creating irreversible creases each time. My son saw me cry last night, asked if I was okay. Asked if I’d like to jump up and down with him. Asked if that would make me feel better. I told him, yes, let’s jump together, and he laughed without reservation each time my feet left the ground.
When he saw that my still-puffy eyes hadn’t yet returned to the happy-crows-feet-mama eyes he knows well, he said, “You’re really sad, mama. Can I make you happy?” I pressed my lips to his forehead, told him, “That’s not your job, baby. Mama can make herself happy.” I listed things that make mama happy, to prove I knew how. To alleviate the burden. Coloring. Walking outside. Deep breaths. Things he understands, careful not to mention all the things he does to make me happy. Careful not to leave him feeling responsible.
Two days ago, he fell and cut his finger on the stick-like stem of our oregano plant. It’s a small cut, but the kind that peels back a layer of skin revealing fresh, raw skin underneath. We bandaged it up, kissed the wound, cursed the oregano plant, even though it wasn’t the plant’s fault. Now, he looks down to the healing cut. Band-aid removed, new skin acclimating to the air, turning color to match the rest of the finger. “Ouch,” he cries again. “It hurts, mama.” I try to convince him the wound is healing. It’ll be better soon. Probably by tomorrow. Soon he won’t even remember it happened. It’ll look good as new. He’s unconvinced. Tells me it hurts. I ask him if it hurts now, or if he’s just remembering that it hurt when it happened. His face crumples as he tries to determine the difference, and I realize I cannot explain the difference to him either. I realize maybe there isn’t one. I stop trying to make it better. I hold him while he hurts for as long as he needs me to.
Aubri Kaufman is the co-founder and co-EIC of Icebreakers Lit. Her work can be found in Pithead Chapel,trampset, HAD, Rejection Letters, and elsewhere. She’s on a bunch of the socials as @aubrirose and she totally wants to talk to you.