What matters
It's the time of the year when anniversary grief bubbles up and reminds me that pain is part of the cost of doing business as a human, as a mother. But that pain clarifies what's important. I can go all year fussing over household projects, things I think my kids should be learning right now, finances, blog-traffic stats, car repairs and any number of other things. Hell Week boils it down to the fact that I have two living children; a great husband, family and friends; and a roof overhead. The rest is gravy--nice, but too much distracts from the main dish and will make you sick.
This is also the time of year when I redouble my efforts not be be an anxious mother. I was sanguine until my son Declan was stillborn due to an umbilical-cord accident, and then I started fearing death for Rocketboy at every turn. If friends with a pool babysat him, he'd surely drown. A playdate in a two-story house? I'd return to see the medical examiner's van arriving after the inevitable fall down the stairs. My doctor assured me these fears were normal for a bereaved parent, but I could feel them hardening into a wall of anxiety around my living child.
Walls protect but they also restrict, and I didn't want to raise Rocketboy--or Hurricanehead, when he came along--in a closed room. I forced myself to let Rocketboy visit the friend with stairs, go places with just Hombre that involved traveling on the freeway, spend a few nights at his grandparents' place, attend horse camp despite my dread of horses. It wasn't easy then and it still isn't, but risk is simply part of life and sometimes, as in Declan's case, all the care, protection and worrying in the world can't stop bad luck. Being alive--from my perspective as an American suburbanite not suffering through famine or war--is a lucky break, a privilege not to be pissed away on petty fears.
That's not to say I let my boys wrestle rabid dogs in traffic or play with guns while talking to strangers on the roof, but I don't fret over every little hangnail. So I was set back by the older woman who cornered me today after scolding Hurricanehead and his friend for running (trotting is more like it) in the long, straight hallway outside their martial-arts classroom. The instructor knows they do this and doesn't have a problem with it. We try to have them keep the noise down and go slow, but we also know they're four years old. They have an hour-long wait for their older sibs' class to finish, coloring is only interesting for so long, and letting them run outdoors in the busy parking lot is not an option. Let 'em trot in the near-empty hall, I say.
Anyway, this gal, whom I'd never seen before, zeroed in as she was leaving, leaned over me where I sat talking to my friends and told me she had corrected Hurricanehead and his pal because "they could trip on something."
"My son knows how to navigate around stationary objects," I said, smiling.
"Well," she persisted, "my daughter tripped once and broke her foot."
I bit back what I wanted to say, which was that her fear was not my child's problem, that from my perspective a broken foot seemed like a fair if painful trade for the privilege of being alive and able to run and play. That being neurotic won't prevent anything but happiness, and that I think it's a straight-up sin to instill a fear of the everyday in a child. But I'd been up past midnight looking over the order of service from Declan's memorial, six years ago today. I was feeling tired and fragile and afraid that if I tried to say all that was on my mind, it would instead come out as, "Fuck off." So I stood and turned my back to her instead, gathering my things until she went away.
In the van, the boys and I talked about being mindful of others. While I want my children to be considerate, I will not teach them to obey random, strange adults because that's an unsafe habit to cultivate. Instead, I told Hurricanehead that in the future he shouldn't play near that woman because it bothers her. Then Rocketboy asked his little brother what the woman had said.
"The first time, she said, 'Stop running.' The second time, she said, 'Stop running,' and the third time?" He paused and shrugged, remembering the game he'd been playing with his friend. "I was going so fast I didn't hear what she said."
My youngest son is too busy living his life to pay attention to other people's neurotic fears. That matters to me. It matters a lot.
This is also the time of year when I redouble my efforts not be be an anxious mother. I was sanguine until my son Declan was stillborn due to an umbilical-cord accident, and then I started fearing death for Rocketboy at every turn. If friends with a pool babysat him, he'd surely drown. A playdate in a two-story house? I'd return to see the medical examiner's van arriving after the inevitable fall down the stairs. My doctor assured me these fears were normal for a bereaved parent, but I could feel them hardening into a wall of anxiety around my living child.
Walls protect but they also restrict, and I didn't want to raise Rocketboy--or Hurricanehead, when he came along--in a closed room. I forced myself to let Rocketboy visit the friend with stairs, go places with just Hombre that involved traveling on the freeway, spend a few nights at his grandparents' place, attend horse camp despite my dread of horses. It wasn't easy then and it still isn't, but risk is simply part of life and sometimes, as in Declan's case, all the care, protection and worrying in the world can't stop bad luck. Being alive--from my perspective as an American suburbanite not suffering through famine or war--is a lucky break, a privilege not to be pissed away on petty fears.
That's not to say I let my boys wrestle rabid dogs in traffic or play with guns while talking to strangers on the roof, but I don't fret over every little hangnail. So I was set back by the older woman who cornered me today after scolding Hurricanehead and his friend for running (trotting is more like it) in the long, straight hallway outside their martial-arts classroom. The instructor knows they do this and doesn't have a problem with it. We try to have them keep the noise down and go slow, but we also know they're four years old. They have an hour-long wait for their older sibs' class to finish, coloring is only interesting for so long, and letting them run outdoors in the busy parking lot is not an option. Let 'em trot in the near-empty hall, I say.
Anyway, this gal, whom I'd never seen before, zeroed in as she was leaving, leaned over me where I sat talking to my friends and told me she had corrected Hurricanehead and his pal because "they could trip on something."
"My son knows how to navigate around stationary objects," I said, smiling.
"Well," she persisted, "my daughter tripped once and broke her foot."
I bit back what I wanted to say, which was that her fear was not my child's problem, that from my perspective a broken foot seemed like a fair if painful trade for the privilege of being alive and able to run and play. That being neurotic won't prevent anything but happiness, and that I think it's a straight-up sin to instill a fear of the everyday in a child. But I'd been up past midnight looking over the order of service from Declan's memorial, six years ago today. I was feeling tired and fragile and afraid that if I tried to say all that was on my mind, it would instead come out as, "Fuck off." So I stood and turned my back to her instead, gathering my things until she went away.
In the van, the boys and I talked about being mindful of others. While I want my children to be considerate, I will not teach them to obey random, strange adults because that's an unsafe habit to cultivate. Instead, I told Hurricanehead that in the future he shouldn't play near that woman because it bothers her. Then Rocketboy asked his little brother what the woman had said.
"The first time, she said, 'Stop running.' The second time, she said, 'Stop running,' and the third time?" He paused and shrugged, remembering the game he'd been playing with his friend. "I was going so fast I didn't hear what she said."
My youngest son is too busy living his life to pay attention to other people's neurotic fears. That matters to me. It matters a lot.
Labels: children
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