My son has been my rock for 24 years

Departure. That’s a word that usually evokes nostalgia. My firstborn son, Peter, turned 24 last month.

Presently, a lot is going on in our lives. All I remember is telling him a cursory happy birthday as he left for the day.

Departure brings about changes. For starters, Peter moved out. He’s got his own thingira.

That’s a young man’s crib in my language. I didn’t know how to handle this. I still don’t know how to. My motherly instincts are all over the place.

Am I losing him, or is the world finding him? How will he manage without me watching over him like the mother hen I am? What’s a mother supposed to do in a situation like this?  

I want Peter to take charge of his life. That’s every mother’s joy and pride. To see their offspring succeed in life.

The fact is, Peter is no longer a nestling. He now has his flight feathers, which means that it’s time for me to retract my wings, and allow him to leave the nest.

Godsend

Like many mothers, I was not prepared for this eventuality. Peter and I share trajectories.

His 24 years of life also mark my 24 years of life. He came into my life when I had lived with this virus for about three years. His birth literally gave me a new lease of life. 

The bundle of joy did not know what a godsend he was to his distraught HIV-positive mother. As I held him in my arms, I knew I would now have to fight twice as hard, but I promised myself that, even if it killed me, so help me God, I would live to see my baby live. 

Sure enough, God has graciously allowed me to see, these past 24-plus years, His awesome goodness in Peter.

Wishing well

 I never officially left home. There were no formal goodbyes. No Godspeed. You all know my history, which I want to remain just that: history.

Long (sad) story short: one day, I just upped and left. I forfeited all the Kodak Moments we had made, and went into the world, sure of only three futures: disease, discrimination and death. 

In Peter’s case, I want him to know exactly how I feel. His is my firstborn child, and, like his name suggests, has been my rock for a long time.

From a pink small bundle, he is now this hulking young man who plays rugby.

I want Peter to know I wish him well. That, unlike me who wished the world would open up and swallow me; that the world will be his oyster.

Anxious moments

I’m every mother. I have anxieties concerning my firstborn’s future. Honestly, I have had these anxieties since Peter hit puberty. Let’s set the record straight: I will do anything in my power to protect my kids from HIV-infection.

Peter has been in mama’s HIV awareness classroom all his life. He has perceived, firsthand, the pain of HIV on my life, and on the lives of other people living with the virus, and orphans and vulnerable children. But the human brain is a funny organ. It can completely forget, or have selective memory, of even the most unforgettable lessons.

I hope that, now that he is on his own, Peter will make responsible decisions. I hope that unfettered freedom will not make him lose his head and morals.

I want him to live HIV-free, and not endure the anxieties that are the staples of many young people living with HIV.

Nest musings

You may think having four other boys to mother will make up for Peter’s departure. Nothing could be further from the truth. A child isn’t a mass product on a conveyor belt, but a unique being.

So Peter is irreplaceable.

Peter’s siblings are young, ranging from eight years to about a year. They will grow up, at least “residentially”, without the physical presence of their big brother. But I know, and can tell from their interactions, that they love each other.

Apart from my constantly oscillating emotions, Peter’s departure is a blessing. My nest’s getting empty. And to think that, 27 years ago today, I thought I’d never have a nest of my own.