When being Mommy will no longer be enough to keep him safe
Posted on | April 27, 2007 |
He sat up tonight in bed, after I’d tucked him in and he was breathing steadily and I’d gone next door to my studio, and yelled, “Mommy, mommy, come in here!”
And when I did, he said, “An alligator is trying to come in here.”
His eyes were wide in the dark.
Now comes the hard part, doesn’t it? Now begin those moments of helplessness that unravel in every direction: nothing I can do to stop the ugly parts of the world from rising up to meet him. Nothing to stop the fear he’ll know, or the anger, the assaults, the guilt, the loneliness, the anxiety that invariably tattoos the skin of our existence as human beings.
Until now, he’s been so small and so close to me, the world could barely wedge itself between us. I was his world. There were no alligators. But now, suddenly he’s twenty six months old and listening to everything that’s said around him, taking it in, digesting it, and the shield I make around him with my fierce she-wolf love, is permeable. His dreams are colored now with language. Words paint the landscape of every waking moment. Everywhere, he follows me about, almost breathless, with a question, an observation, some piece of whimsy. He copies everything. He says everything.
I kissed him a hundred times, pressing my face against his warm cheek. Then sang the tumbling notes of a lullaby I made up recently, to which he seems to know all the words, and requests nightly. But after I’d left the room, left the hallway, left the house with an armload of books to trade for store credit at Barnes & Noble, he woke up. As if he knew I’d left.
He pattered from his big-boy-bed to the doorway of my studio, where yellow lamp light exchanged space with the darkness pressing close, and called for Mommy.
After DH called me, saying he’d been waking up every ten minutes, troubled, calling out for me (which he has never, ever done before), I drove home anxiously. Skimming through blinking yellow lights, listening to haunting jazz tunes from faraway places. Saxophone, played well, always breaks my heart.
I came upstairs as soon as I got home, and found the two of them lying in the dark of our bedroom. DH was awake. Bean was asleep, spread horizontally across my pillows. I bent near his cheek and whispered, “I’m here now, baby. I’ll watch over you. You’re safe.”
But how long will I even be able to say those words?
Comments
13 Responses to “When being Mommy will no longer be enough to keep him safe”
Leave a Reply
April 28th, 2007 @ 9:17 am
You will be able to say those words for the rest of your life because no matter what - when he’s 22, 29, 36, 47 and going through some crisis, you will jump in the car or plane and hold him and say “I’m here now, baby. I’ll watch over you. You’re safe.”
Because you are a mommy (and a good one, I will add).
April 28th, 2007 @ 12:24 pm
Every time you say them, you will mean them and they’ll be true for him.
April 28th, 2007 @ 12:56 pm
I second lizardek. Your words will always ring true for Bean. You will always possess the power to comfort your child….through adulthood. Isn’t it beautiful to be a mom?!!
April 28th, 2007 @ 1:54 pm
Of course you’re right–I’ll always say them, mean them, want to wrap my entire being around him with them…but there comes a time–so quickly, when I cannot actually keep him safe. That terrifies me. Do yo know what I mean?
April 28th, 2007 @ 4:19 pm
It’s heartbreaking. We’re getting into some of the same stuff. For so long I marveled at the fact that for this sweet little person, I was all she needed. Sad to see that become less and less true, and not just because of the loss of that feeling and that closeness but because of everything else that that means: the alligators, etc.
April 29th, 2007 @ 11:07 am
Call me innocent and whimsical, but I still believe in the protection of my mother’s love. Perhaps it is because of her wide faith, but when she reassures me, I believe.
I love the she-wolf image - the mighty, instinctual river that floods our hearts.
April 29th, 2007 @ 11:10 am
You will say them forever and they will always be true.
April 29th, 2007 @ 1:07 pm
you must not only try to sheild your boy from the fears of the world, but also arm him with the tools he will need when your not able to be there.
April 29th, 2007 @ 1:07 pm
you must not only try to sheild your boy from the fears of the world, but also arm him with the tools he will need when your not able to be there.
April 30th, 2007 @ 10:12 am
they will always be true to him, just like everyone above said. my mom still has the ability to comfort me. he knows you will always be there for him and hat will be enough to get him through.
tara
April 30th, 2007 @ 6:01 pm
Even in my early forties, I still feel the warmth of my mom. When I am hurt and feel lonely, I cry for her helplessly (like a baby) from thousands miles away for her protection, care, love and compassion. No matter how old I am, whether she is live or dead, I will do the same until I leave this world. That is the love and protection that I want to give my son. That is the same love, Christina; you have for your son. That is the same feeling we all have for our kids as MOMS.
May 14th, 2007 @ 6:16 am
I say the same words (sub “Papa” for Mom”) and mean them and also wonder for how long if ever they can be true.
May 14th, 2007 @ 7:43 pm
You’ll always say them, and they’ll always be true - but the paradigm will shift. The texture of your relationship will deepen and the layers will permeate more of your day-to-day interaction. It will be true, and even truer, and you’ll marvel at how you got to that place - even as you marvel at the passing of the last year and the changes you have witnessed, and the ones you missed that just snuck up upon you somehow…
…it’s all good.