Holding On
In a shocking turn of events, I haven’t had much anxiety lately. I don’t know if it’s the narrowing of focus, the rearranging of priorities, the vitamin D supplement, or the fact that Scott’s been feeding the kids breakfast in the morning while I lay in bed. However (there’s always a however), last night I was up until 1 a.m. haunted by all the ways the world could take my children from me. I combed through the internet looking for “SLOW. Children at Play” signs, life jackets, and turtle shaped wrist bands that set off an alarm anytime they come into contact with water. Maybe I shouldn’t have had all that coffee ice cream before bed. I’ve always been your pretty standard worrier, or even on the more relaxed end of the spectrum. I want my kids to experience life, ride public transit, eat shit and learn from mistakes. Mostly, I worry I won’t take enough pictures of it all.
A few weeks ago when we were on my parents’ boat, the girls were playing in the gathering area at the feet of three adults submerged in various morning activities. They didn’t have their life jackets on yet since they were inside. I went downstairs to change or pee or examine at the mole on my neck. When I came back a minute later, the girls weren’t in the parlor. They weren’t on the back deck, either. After a quick, “all hands on deck” panic, we found them lolling around on the back swim step chatting casually about fish poop. I can’t shake the image of Isla being that close to the water without her life vest on. I can’t shake the feeling that as a parent you can’t let your guard down and that I had.
One minute we’re skipping in the sunshine, the next we’re lodged in the throat of a pandemic beast, or on the edge of an irreversible tragedy. I’m thinking of death, the kids are thinking of poop.
In Tina Fey’s book there’s a chapter where she talks about the moment you become a woman. A right of passage, or a shove into inevitable, obligatory maturity. I wanted to fend off adulthood forever and womanhood just sounded too bloody, hairy and extravagant to embrace. And yet here I am, my children’s fingers interlaced in one hand, while adult life entangles itself in my other. And I wonder, how can it all be so delicate?
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