You Could Die

One deep fear parents have is that their child might die. We have evidence to believe that it is possible. Those small newborn nostrils, for instance. Did you know that newborns cannot breathe through their mouths? Leo nearly died of congestion the first night he was home from the hospital. An old dusty rug, we believe, was the reason. A few years before, Amelia was so sick at age two that she was on oxygen for three days. All across the world, children die. My child could be one of them. Just the other night, Leo vomited in his sleep, choking silently in his bed. Amelia saved him simply by being awake and beside him. She called me from the stairs, and after a few stomach thrusts, he coughed, breathed, and slipped back into sleep. He could die. She could die. 

At age four Amelia stood at the top of our neighborhood's very tall metal slide, let her hands go, and started dancing. She was teasing me. I took the bait. "Amelia!" I called from the ground, "You could die." I said, warning us all. Sometimes children forget. We parents never do. 

It's important to learn how to live with fear, to feel for its pang, but then pause to observe it. Is this fear screaming at my imagination to paint a gruesome scene of blood, anguish, and injury? Do I need to intervene? Or can I wait a moment? 

Be alert, your fear is a killjoy. 

A tumble is far more effective at teaching careful attention than incessant intervention. At the same time, I always run whenever I hear a holler for help, or as Leo says, "I scared, Mumma!" I give the boost, snuggle, chat, and tickle. And they remind me how to follow curiosity, and seek connection, knowledge, and beauty. 

I try to be quiet. Talk less. Go outside. There we climb, play, run, bike, and balance. I want these children to have space and time to grow nimble, confident, and strong. Let them feel how wonderful it is to have a body. 

I live with the fragility of little human children by practicing presence. At this moment, she is alive. At this moment, he is alive. Additionally, they are a cluster of descriptive words. I am here as a guide, model, and (while they are still very young) bodyguard. I am awake to the dichotomy of love and fear. Aware that I cannot (and should not) prevent all pain in their lives. It happens. It will happen. They are little human children after all. They are born to live and bound to die, just like the rest of us.  We can know this and still go about our day, welcoming joy, abundance, and play.