Christmas Mothers

As I sit in the quiet darkness, the glow of the Christmas tree bathes the Nativity below in soft colored light. Mary kneels, holding her infant son, on that long ago, cold winter night. The boy would grow up, and whatever nation or faith you are from, it is certain that infant grew into a man that would change history for the next 2000 years. But to Mary, I know in my mother’s heart, he would always be that infant that she held in her arms.

A few days ago I received a phone call that every woman dreads. My son called me from college to ask, in a very jumbled up way, how to tell if you have a concussion. Amongst a dropped phone, some chaos amongst his friends on the other end of the line, and the rush of panicked blood that flooded my head, we managed to get him into their car and they headed for the hospital in Ruston. While I grabbed a few absolutely ridiculous items that I thought necessary for my flight, and got into my mid-life sporty car I affectionately refer to as "The Rocket."

It lived up to its name. I had no idea Ruston was only 20 minutes from Bossier. I always thought Louisiana Tech was farther away. Now that I know its that close, I’ll have to meet my son for lunch more often. And my trip was peppered with phone calls back and forth from me to my husband, my daughter, and the two roommates trying to find a hospital in a city they still weren’t that familiar with. Had the hospital been savvy enough to locate next to Taco Bell, the boys would have been their in 7 minutes flat.

I entered the emergency to find his two buddies in the waiting area, books spread out before them, doing their homework while waiting on word of their friend. They told me that my son had returned from playing rugby earlier that day and had been acting really strange. Evidently strange enough for two 19 year old boys to stop playing Guitar Hero and give a mom a phone call. You don’t just put down your Xbox for any other reason. It takes something special.
Something like your friend taking his shoes on and off several times while stating that there is a woman in the car under an umbrella taking notes. Or something like looking for the same shoes you had just taken off, while they are next to your feet.

What conscientious and smart young men. Smart enough to jump in the car and bring my son for help. However, they also relied on my demented, kicked-in-the-head son for directions to the hospital. When they found themselves almost in Little Rock, the lady under the umbrella must have spoken up from the hood of the car and told them the right way to the hospital.

After a few hours of exams and scans, and hearing my son babble non-stop about what good buddies they were, what a great kicker his teammate was, and maybe the lady with the umbrella would help him take notes in chemistry, the doctor told me I could take him home. He said to spend a few days resting, and if he got any more goofy, which I thought was a near impossibility, to take him to a bigger hospital. And I was to watch him all night and make sure things stayed good.

We headed back home to Bossier for a few days rest under my watchful eye. Even though the friends had proven invaluable, they had to get back to their Guitar Hero, and I needed to be a mom for awhile again. We entered the house to a flurry of a concerned dad, brother, sister, girlfriend, and, of course, the woman under the umbrella came too.

But after everyone had gone home and to bed, and I was keeping my midnight watch on my sleeping son, he turned to me and thanked me for driving all that way to help him out when he didn’t know what else to do. I looked at him lying on the couch under the glow of the Christmas tree, and patted his head lying on the pillow at my side. As Mary, holding her infant, watched me from beneath the tree, I smiled and told my son that no matter how tall he grew, or how far he traveled, to his mother he would always be that sweet little baby from long, long ago.