Missing: Rafael, 3 years old June 27, 2010

Not really sure what happened,  I will explain:

In 2007 I unexpectedly became a mother to Rafael, Rafi for short. The absolute dream baby: laughing, smiling, jiggling, loving and eating any and all of his food, sleeping through the night and being an absolute joy through the day. Fair skin, blond hair, bright blue eyes which after a very private conversation between him and me gradually changed to a vividly curious green, the color of MY eyes.

From the first moment that I woke up with Rafi on my chest that one Sunday morning in July, we had a bond. We had not just shown up in each others lives – no. Rafael was living up to the meaning of his name “the one who heals”, by making me forget all the incumbrances of my previous life and putting joy, real and pure and complete joy, in my heart and giving me a new life…a life with a purpose.

By all accounts, the rather harsh reality that emerged around our little emotional island of bliss, was a blazing roller coaster.

But Rafi was – and continues to be – my cushion during the ride, buffering the bruises, filling the cocoon of home with love and light, while the outside world had made it its sole intention to morally and financially dismantle me, piece after piece. Rafi gave it all perspective and necessity: all my struggles had and have a meaning by maintaining my sanity to be a good and nurturing mom.

Thank God (and George W. Bush) we are no longer the only ones suffering economically,  scraping by day-by-day we are now part of the majority and not the minority. Three years ago, we were still overwhelmed, now we are going with the flow.

Asking at the village grocers to maintain a revolving tab until month end, we now are in good and familiar company which somewhat lowers the humiliation.  Don´t get me wrong: it still sucks, majorly. But we encounter more sympathy now, as everybody is late on their bills these days, and you are almost frowned upon if you can pay it all on time and breeze trough recession impounded Spain unscathed. We suffer together.

That having been said: Having to make a decision between a water bazooka for a gregarious toddler in June and tomorrow´s breakfast rolls makes me painfully aware of where we are: In the shitter.

I have tried to keep Rafi safe from all this tension. But obviously, if you have a bond, you transcend the negative as much as the positive, no matter how hard you try. We nurtured a fine antenna for disharmony, successfully so.

I have always made it a point not to use baby-speak around my son, to contest his questions, to answer him in a way that makes sense to him without sounding like a cartoon character. This is why he has been speaking very articulately since he was 18 months old, and now speaks 3 languages (his dad´s, mine and his own, the local language) – and sings along to Lady Gaga, which may be counterproductive, but the jury is still out on that one.

After the bazooka incident yesterday, which was accompanied by a public tantrum in front of the village shop, we had one of our little talks. Knees bent to be on his level, I started with my habitual “Now please look at me and listen to me for a second” and explained to him that we had just been to the café where he had got his ice cream and I had got nothing, that we played his card game, took his boat to the beach to confirm to him that indeed the water was still too cold, and finally had stopped at the store to get him the desired baked beans he fancied. Everything had been about him (maybe driven by my guilt, but it´s his summer vacation). It was time to understand that we are operating on a limited budget, and that I was sorry but that we have to think about what we are spending the money on. Which apparently he did.

Today, like every morning, Rafi (at least that´s what I thought who it was) called from his adjacent bedroom “Mami, can I come to your bed?”…”Of course you can”. Two hands and a bright smile beneath his disheveled curls on the side of my bed, at my eye level. I hoist him up into the middle of our bed and we snuggle until we are awake. Next on the daily agenda is coffee for everyone, which comes in a Whinnie Poo bottle for him (cereal coffee), made for all of us by his dad because my coffee is a disgrace and a bad start to any day. Then we vote on whether to watch the (very well done) BBC English kiddie TV or read a story. Today however, I was tired and just wanted some peace and quiet, no TV, no story, some snuggles, and then just roll out of bed to go to the corner café for a strong coffee. Selfish, I know.

That is when it came at me: Rafi sat up in bed, staring at me with as much condescence as he could manage, snapping me in the face: “Now, Mami, you look at me please and listen to me for a second: You told me that not everything is about one person in the family, but we decide together. Daddy and I want to stay here in bed and watch CBeeBees. You told me that we are on a tight budget, so we cannot go to the café today and you will have some of coffee Daddy makes. And I am sorry, but not everything is always about you. Now, you think about that!”

And so this  morning I realized: Rafi has vanished, and one equally  cute, blond and green-eyed little boy took his place. Although he looks a lot like our Rafi, the things that are coming out of this boy´s mouth are wise beyond his years, and scare the pants of me – because: be careful what you wish for ! They are my own….

I want my baby back.