Sunflower

Sunflower

Ezra throws his bag onto the back seat, tears off his coat and slams both doors as he gets into the front passenger seat. His face is crimson coloured, and he’s perspiring. I can already tell it was a bad day. I stroke his hair. He forces a smile, but I catch him looking out of the window to see if anyone saw.

It’s a quiet drive home. I deliberately skip to the songs he likes in the hope that this may lighten the load.

When he was small, he knew no worries, no insecurity, nor fear. In my arms was where he was happiest; he was safe, loved, and untouched by the hardships and adversities life would inevitably bring.

When I ponder those times, my heart aches recalling how he would thrive and find such validation and peace in the shadow of my love. I like to think he was such a happy child because he felt how I saw him: a beacon of light, extraordinary, limitless.

What an arduous time we are in now. My baby is no longer a baby at all, but not a teenager, nor an adult. The boy who used to run out of primary school reaching for me to sweep him up into my arms now gets out of the car to go to school without a hug goodbye. The energetic lad who spent his days running around in Spiderman costumes and would happily wear them out of the house wherever we would go, now worries if his outfit is good enough and fusses with his hair before he joins his friends. My big hearted, loving boy who would show affection to everyone he cared about in public now refuses to meet his friends if anyone would see he’d been crying.

At least at home, with me, he is comfortable to show his other side.

I try to recall when life became heavy on his now broad shoulders. It must be last summer; just before he started ‘big’ school. Neither of us was ready for the change, for the shift. Big changes have a habit of sneaking up on you, and I’m not convinced you’re ever really prepared.

Ezra wears his heart on his sleeve. His deep sense of empathy and kind soul I had always considered such a blessing; but I knew the time would come where this would make him vulnerable to being hurt and susceptible to outside influences which would try to dim his light.

He put on a brave face on that first day, but I could sense the anxiety and fear beneath the bold exterior. I remember watching him walk through the gate on his own; all the other kids seemed to tower over him. Having spent weeks in the realisation he was growing up far too quickly, maturing into a fine young man, he suddenly looked so small. In a group of Douglas Firs, he appeared more like an undergrowth. All I could see was the five-year-old boy reluctant to remove his hand from mine on the first day of foundation.

Once out of sight, I cried as I drove away.

Since then, my sweet boy has wilted before my very eyes. For someone who was always easy with a smile, he is now withdrawn and quiet on one hand, petulant on the other. I cringe at the thought of how he now sinks into himself at every social situation or conversation with any other person outside of home, the way night-blooming flowers shrivel in the sun.

It turns out the friends who came up with him aren’t supporting him the way I had assumed they would, and certainly not the way Ezra had hoped. I made light of the revelation that he was spending break times wondering alone, using ‘encouraging language’ to push him to be confident, as the advice online says you should.

My arms no longer shield Ezra the way they once did. He now struggles in the shackles of adolescence and uncertainty; in a world where others make him question where his place is, where he belongs. I loathe it.

They say it’s hard having a baby; the sleepless nights, the lack of rest. But this is the hard part of motherhood people don’t warn you about – no longer being able to protect your child from any sadness, disappointment, or pain; unable to stop anyone or anything making him feel like he’s not enough.

What else can I do but sit with him when he cannot escape the silent prison of self-doubt?

Tonight, he again declines my offer of ice cream; a tradition we used to have after school. Apparently, the other boys wouldn’t let him join their group in performing arts today. I refrain from showing my disdain at this and instead assure him he should ‘try to make new friends’, ‘try not to let them exclude you’… as if it’s that simple. I wrap my arms around him, and he sinks into them. He’s still in there. How can I fix this? How do I get through?

The following morning, I see the effort he is making to be positive.

“I promise Mum, I am smiling when people speak to me; I’m trying to say hi to everyone.”

I place my hand on his arm and give him a reassuring smile; “I know you are, buddy”, I say, “you’ve got this”.

3.15pm could not come quick enough. I analyse his face as he approaches the car and mask my own anxiety, as I give him a subtle wave.

He doesn’t slam the door this time, but he is deep in thought; troubled. I place my hand on his and squeeze it. He squeezes it back three times; three syllables, the way we did when he was little, before immersing himself in his phone.

Just before bed, I peer around the door.

“Is it time for bed now?” he asks.

I don’t answer. I walk over and sit on the side of the bed.

“Do you remember when you were little, you brought sunflower seeds home from school once?”

He shakes his head.

“You sowed the seeds and watered them day after day; your biggest triumph being when you saw the green emerging from the compost. How your little face lit up with the joy of watching that sunflower you had cared for grow.

I have watched you grow with such pride, as you did with your sunflower.

Do you remember when your sunflower wilted on the front porch, and we took it back inside? We watered it and nurtured it until it started growing again”.

He stares at me intently.

“You took the sunflower in your little hands and placed it back outside, and for weeks we observed how it grew taller and stronger, and bent to the wind.”

Ezra now looks puzzled; “Okay…”

“Well,” I continue, “you are my sunflower. You will grow, you too will bend to the wind, and you will bloom”.

Ezra ponders this.

As I get up, he stops me. “Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Can we have some ice cream?”