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When I became a mother, I also became a worrier. The first
night we brought R home from the hospital, I insisted that we stay up and take
turns watching the baby sleep. My husband, still riding the wave of new-father
euphoria smiled indulgently at his crazy, sleep-deprived wife and obliged.
Twenty-four hours later, euphoria had faded, replaced by the desperation of a
man who hadn’t slept or showered in three days. He reminded me that this was a
completely unsustainable practice, much like the time that, as a newly wed
bride, I vowed to prepare home-cooked meals each night.
For months afterward, I would wake in a panic and peer over
the side of R’s crib. I would lean closer and closer until I could see his little
chest moving up and down beneath his footie pajamas. If I didn’t hear the soft
sounds of his breath right away, I might tap his foot or jostle his tiny arm.
Looking back, this is probably why he didn’t sleep through the night consistently
until he was almost one.
The first time I had to leave R or K with a care provider,
who was not a member of our immediate families, I experienced what I imagine a
panic attack would be like. It felt so unnatural to be leaving the most
valuable entities I had in my possession with people that I had only conversed
with a handful of times. I worried about falls, burns, choking, illness, abduction,
car accidents, emotional trauma, abuse, poisoning, home invasions, unsecured
firearms lurking in bedroom closets, second-hand smoke, attacks by dogs and
wild animals, bullying by other children, drowning, fires, tornados, nuclear
accidents, and tsunamis (we live in a land-locked state).
I subscribed to the saying, “Worrying works. 90% of the things
I worry about never happen.” I figured if I could worry about it enough, I
could prevent tragedy, and by extension, shield my heart from all that that
would mean.
Anyone who is a parent can attest to the blind panic that
often accompanies parenthood. The first time R bolted away from me in a crowded
store, in the 60 seconds it took to reestablish visual contact with him, I
found myself frantically thinking about what he was wearing so that I could
describe it to law enforcement officers, and mentally penning desperate pleas
to would-be kidnappers.
Another time, having fallen six feet from a piece of
playground equipment and hit his head on a metal bar on the way down, I was
preparing to rush R to the emergency room when I wiped away the copious amount
of blood coming from his mouth to find a small cut. (It turns out the mouth
bleeds more than other parts of the body. Who knew?)
During the swine flu scare a couple of years ago, I poured
over the accounts of symptoms and the stories of small children stricken by the
virus who lost their lives. I worried myself sick over every runny nose or
fever that spring.
In light of recent events in the community and country, I
find myself feeling more anxious than ever. From discussions I’ve had with
friends and co-workers in recent days, I know that I’m not alone. For me, the
most unsettling part of stories like these is that regardless of whether we
move our children to nice, “safe” communities, get them annual flu shots, lock
up poisonous chemicals in our houses, and are hyper vigilant about screening
daycare providers, bad things can still happen. The uncertainty of being able to
ensure the safety of what most parents consider to be the most precious
resource the world will ever know is downright scary. It means that our hearts are
vulnerable to chance occurrences, completely exposed to the whims of nature or
strangers.
If anything positive has come out of the terrible stories
and images that have been flashing across TV screens for the past week, it’s
that we have had a lot of extra hugs, snuggles, books read, and “I love yous”
in our house recently. The other night, as I was rocking K to sleep, I found
myself marveling at the perfectly formed curls that rest just at the top of the
neck of her pajamas on the back of her head. I have been really listening to
R’s stories from preschool this week, instead of occasionally throwing in a distracted
“mmm-hmm.” And let me tell you, I’ve learned so much about preschool socio-political
issues. I had no idea Pre-K was such a jungle.
I’ll still insist on hand-holding when streets are crossed,
having Highway Patrol inspected car seats, and I dread the day when I have to
hand over a set of car keys to either of my children. The bottom line is that
parenthood is terrifying a lot of the time, but I don’t know many parents who
would trade the experience. I think this conversation from the 1989 movie Parenthood sums it up best:
Grandma:
You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.
Gil: Oh?
Grandma: Up, down, up,
down. Oh, what a ride!
Gil: What a great
story.
Grandma: I always
wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride
could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled
all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just
goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.
What a perfect analogy for what it means to be a
parent.
