Sharing this very absurd very narcissistic feeling here in this very safe very public space: sometimes I catch myself worrying that my son doesn’t love me. Or I think, what do I need to do today to get him to love me? Or love me more, or enough? Of all my insecurities this might be the craziest. He chews on my hands and wraps my hair around his fingers but am I just a pillow? Does he know me? But this is not high school and he’s not a boy I like. I don’t have to trick or convince him to like me, I don’t have to place myself strategically near him reading a book I know he likes. He’s not a boss whose respect I need to earn, he’s not a colleague I need to convince that I’m cool. I grew his lungs. I made his fingers in my sleep. He came into this world loving me. The love began with his heartbeat. Isn’t that wonderful?, I ask myself, my face millimeters from his, as I stretch my mouth wide into a gummy worm smile, fishing for Love.