“It’s Hard Being the Mother of Electricity. And Also Quite Dazzling.”
“I doused my little super hero in water everyday, and was livid that this didn’t extinguish his electricity. But we all know what happens when you throw water on electricity.”
A little more than 18 years ago, I gave birth to a super hero. His super power was electricity.
He was powerful. He was loud. When he walked into a room, he would fill the space so entirely that it would be suffocating. You could feel his electricity transfer and consume everybody in the room.
His electricity was thrilling, but also wild and uncontrollable. It terrified me. It terrified a lot of people.
I had imagined a mould for my super hero, and I didn’t understand why he refused to fit into it like a good boy. Like an easy and controllable boy. Why couldn’t he just be the normal child that I had imagined for myself?
What was wrong with him? I would ask in anger over and over when my super hero refused to contort himself into my imagined mould.
It was impossible for my little super hero to slow his current and control his electricity.
That was very inconvenient for me. For his teachers. For his peers. I grew increasingly angry and bitter toward my wild, electric boy. I almost lost myself trying to control him.
My super hero’s electricity was fueled by rage as he grew, turning him more powerful and harder to control. The more powerful my super boy became, the harder I tried to jam him into his small, quiet, controllable mould that I still held on to.
It’s hard being the mother of electricity. I doused my little super hero in water everyday, and was livid that this didn’t extinguish his electricity. But we all know what happens when you throw water on electricity.
I can see now that my super hero was a beautiful electric storm.
I now watch him from a distance, and I am in awe of his beauty. Of his power. I could stand here forever and watch the lighting show and listen to the distant rumble and the soothing pitter-pat on the roof above me.
I want to go back and do it over for Jake. I want to wind back time and start again as a proud creator of a super hero. Of a perfect storm. Reminding him every day that he is electric and powerful.
But then I think, can I appreciate the beauty of a storm when I’m standing in it?
The thunder deafening. The lighting crashing down around me. The rain so heavy and relentless that I can’t see anything but the flashes of lighting. Can’t hear anything but the constant bangs ringing in my ears.
I gave birth to a super hero and his power was electricity. He was a beautiful powerful storm and once he rolled over the top of me, I could see him for the wonder that he is.
I pray that he still knows that he is electricity. That he is a beautiful storm.
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