Out of My Hands

 “To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake
is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”
―Pema Chödrön

The phone rang as I followed my toddler son around, sweeping up graham cracker crumbs. “Hi, Amy?” came Miss Tara’s voice. “I think you’d better come get Ellie. She feels a little hot and she’s just not acting like herself.” On the way to the preschool, I wondered how my daughter would be when I got there. Would she be sobbing on the floor? Waiting at the door with a tear-streaked face? I was still new to this school mom thing. New to being separated from my girl. Heck, I was still relatively new to the girl herself, so all I could do was guess.

I rounded the corner and saw her sitting at the little table with the other kids. Her head rested against her hand, but she was meticulously writing letters on dotted lines, her face focused and impassive. Until she saw me. Her features melted, then, into misery and relief, recognition and longing. As I pulled her feverish head to my chest and felt her hot tears escape, I thought of that look in my daughter’s eyes. I could fall right into that look.

 I was in first grade when I threw up in the school bathroom. I didn’t make it to the toilet, but at least the carpet in the hall was spared. The seconds ticked by as I waited on the hard chair in the school office feeling dizzy, embarrassed, and utterly wretched. Until I looked up and there she was. The one person on earth who could fix this. The one whose arms were my home. She was there, and she was enough.

Then later, when she wasn’t there, I consoled myself with thoughts of the future. Babies would make it better. I would have children of my own, I decided, and as I poured into them what I still yearned for, the void would be filled. Of course, I would stay. And by staying, I would always be enough.

When Ellie made her red-faced way into the world, the doctor placed her on my chest and said, “Congratulations, Mom.” Mom. The word that tends to lodge itself in my throat had now become my name. This messy and breathtaking christening of mine was a dawning—of a new chapter, yes, but also of the understanding that life is never settled. That endings are never sure. That to open your arms is to invite in pain.

In my vague and golden vision of my future, I raise a daughter to age twelve, watch her wake up her first morning as a teenager, and then simply stay as she thrives. In reality, Ellie is hurtling her way toward that mythical moment and I am bombarded by fears of what she could face as she gallops on past. I know now that my mere presence won’t always be enough. There are some—so many!—things a mother can’t fix. I can’t even guarantee the sticking around part, no matter how hard I dig in my heels. All I can do is be here while I’m here.

Almost ten years ago I brought my baby home and held her close, marveling at her vulnerability. A frantic internet search for the elusive secret to preventing SIDS led me to an essay by a mother who had lost her infant son. She recalled how he used to sleep with his tiny hand resting on his stomach. My exhausted, hormone-addled mind latched onto this detail and twisted it into my own personal superstition. Perhaps I could protect my girl from sudden death if I never slept with my hand on my stomach. I knew I was being illogical, and I scoffed at myself every night as I drifted off. And yet. My hands never touched my stomach through hundreds of nights and two more heart-stopping babies. It was just another made-up way of feeding the illusion that I had a say in anything.