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| Family portrait by six-year-old Sammy. Note that I take center stage in a larger-than-life role. |
Mothers are
biologically hard-wired to ensure the survival of the species. They are charged
with preparing their offspring to leave the nest by teaching them the skills
they’ll need to navigate the world independently.
With reality
television shows and women's magazines glorifying the exploits of pushy and
meddlesome moms, controlling moms who demand that their children live up to
unreasonably high standards, one gets the sense that modern mothers grade
themselves on their children’s achievements.
From the women
who trundle their pre-schoolers from one resume-building activity to another, to
those who spend the equivalent of college tuition on their kids’ elite sports
leagues and dance teams, many moms seem to believe that it is their level of devotion
that determines their child’s destiny.
There was a
brief spell, very early on in my parenting life, where I could have bought into that fantasy. Unfortunately, I bumped into breast cancer, which swiftly rid me
of the notion that I could plot my daughter’s future success. I
couldn’t even control the health of my body. How would it be possible for me to
control Sammy’s ascent to adulthood?
That doesn’t
mean that I didn’t invest in the requisite activities. I signed her up at a
popular gymnastics club, took her to their tumbling and dance classes, and
laughed off their suggestion that my five-year-old demonstrated a real talent
for pom dance. Neither of her parents possessed a penchant for rhythmic
movement, so I could only surmise that the suggestion was a red herring meant
to lure us into the added expense of joining the competition team.
If I had any
other wistful desires to mold my child into a prodigy of some form, they
disappeared when, midway through my second pregnancy, a fatal anomaly was
revealed in my unborn baby's genetic blueprint. I tumbled down the rabbit hole
of realization that any control I thought I had over my children's future was a
figment of wishful thinking.
It was a random
error, a chromosomal defect. Such defects do not discriminate. It could have happened
to anyone. I only knew that it had happened to me.
Uncertainty was
the only constant I had to work with. I planned for the inevitable and hoped
for the impossible, suspended in the limbo of not knowing. I savored every kick
and cursed every contraction.
I wrote a birth
plan that doubled as a living will. In the unlikely event of live birth, there
would be no resuscitation or medical intervention. I wanted my baby to experience
only peace.
I planned
activities to entertain seven-year-old Sammy and watched, helpless, as she crumbled
under the weight of our circumstances. Her tantrums were legendary and public.
She directed the
bulk of her fury at me because I was the one growing the baby. I became her
punching bag. It took every last ounce of my self-control not to hit her back.
I couldn’t keep
up with the demands of work and home and frankly, I stopped trying. I didn’t
care if the house was clean or the laundry done. I was keeping my family afloat,
and that was enough.
My baby turned
happy somersaults in my belly, seemingly unaware of her family's descent into
chaos. I rubbed my swollen belly and wished that I could stay pregnant forever.
Five weeks
before her due date, my little girl burst into the world. Cradled against my
chest, she slipped away two hours later. When I left the hospital, my arms were
empty. My heart was full.
The pit of loss
swallowed me whole. I mourned the daughter I'd buried and ached with her big
sister’s pain. I blamed myself, not only for my baby’s death, but for the disintegration
of Sammy’s previously sheltered life.
She took my hand
at the funeral and wouldn’t let go. Day after day, she pulled me through,
dragging me back to life.
I know that I
failed her, more times than I could ever begin to count. I was too sad to play,
too weary to read to her, too broken to fully attend to her needs.
I also know that
I showed her how to muster courage and move forward in the face of
insurmountable challenge. She gets her personality from her father. She gets
her perseverance from me.
I still grapple
with grief and guilt, worry about the emotional scars she carries. I comfort
myself with the knowledge that I did the best I could, under the circumstances.
I hope that when
Sammy’s an adult, she’ll forgive me. I know that when she’s a mom, she’ll
understand.