Every other Sunday I hear…his sometimes deep, sometimes crackling voice tell me about what he has been doing.  I hear animation and excitement when he talks about photography and the future.  His words are articulate and mature, his topics not as much.  I hear regret and resignation when he speaks of the past.  I hear his need to be more independent tempered by his need for structure.  I hear the little boy of yesterday, tugging on my pant legs as this not so little boy says “Mama, did I tell you about xyz?”.  I hear his need for attention and reassurance that he is loved, NO MATTER WHAT.  I hear his tentativeness when he asks how his brothers are doing.

Every other Sunday I smell…that mix of sweat, hair gel, deodorant and toothpaste that only comes from adolescent boys.  It is an odor barely veiled by the extravagant use of cheap cologne.  I smell a boy, trying to be a man…figuring out what attracts others to him and what is offensive.  I smell fabric softener, different from the scent I use at home and it serves as just another reminder that home is where he does not reside.

Every other Sunday I touch…his soft hands, not worn by work or affected by weather.  The hands of an artist.  I touch his sticky hair and put my hand on the small of his back.  I allow myself to squeeze him in, as if I wish I could just envelope him inside me, away from the cares and hurts of the world, during a brief hug.  Sometimes I find my hand cupping his cheek, wanting to count the freckles {or angel kisses} like we used to do when he was little.

Every other Sunday I feel…a compulsion to pretend like the last five years haven’t happened. I feel the desire to take him and run away so that we can be all together as a family again, even though I know that cannot {and should not} be. I feel angry that he did not come to live with us sooner.  I feel protective like a mother bear for her cubs. I feel frustrated that this is how our life has to be.  I feel helpless and sometimes hopeless.

And, then I remember that at least I have every other Sunday to see, to hear, to smell, to touch and to feel what it is to be Jason’s mama.  And I thank God for every other Sunday.