Brave Moms

Memory: my eldest, back when she was about 3, running along behind us in Monterey as we walked and talked along a walled-in pathway overlooking the Pacific. My husband and I turn around to check on her and see that she has decided running on top of the stone wall between path and cliff is a good idea. She has her tongue sticking out against her upper lip as she does when concentrating. Hair flying behind her. We, her frozen-in-terror parents, had the presence of mind not to shout at her, not to interrupt her focus, not to startle her into a temporary bird who would then be broken on the wave-carved rocks below.

I read this article today about being a brave mom. About how we are told to raise courageous children, but generally tend to do so while hyperventilating into a paper bag due to our own anxiety. The article refers to letting children do dangerous things, like climbing, biking, diving from high places. Personally, I do not need extreme sport to make me feel anxiety about the safety of my children. I think it is universal among parents, and probably especially among mothers.

My own Mom, may she not be hyperventilating into a paper bag somewhere in Mom heaven, could not even attend my childhood cross country meets for the nervous wreck she would be if my race did not go as planned. She could not care less if I ran fast, but she could not bear my own intense teenaged self-loathing.

I was watching Steph Curry play the other day, back from missing 16 games or so due to another injury, and realized watching him play is like parenting. That is, I found myself just waiting for the next shoe to drop, in the form of a twisted ankle or mangled knee. That feeling, of wanting so badly for things to go well, but bracing yourself for something bad to happen.

It is sweet to remember my Mom getting anxious about little things like cross country meets and piano recitals. Though to be honest I think her fear was about my type A driven personality and the deep abyss of depression I would teeter right over, like a 3 year old running on the top of a stone wall over a cliff. So maybe sweet is not quite the right word. I might not have offered the same grittiness as fodder for fears as has, for instance, a certain son of mine. He had me picturing the absolute worst. Which, thus far, has not yet occurred. The second absolute worst, yes. When your fears come true as a Mom, you rise up. And fall down. Then rise up again and then fall again. And somehow finally stop falling long enough to live life each day with some semblance of hope and gratitude.

My son wrote a letter from prison to my 10 year old nephew recently. Nephew brought it to show me and son's Dad. It said how he wished he had tried in school. How important it is for nephew to do this, to not end up making choices like son did. Nephew held the letter close to his heart, probably a little bit awed by having a family member in prison, but also clearly wanting son to be free. Free so they can open a mechanics shop together some day. It will be on the top floor of our house, where only the right people will know how to find it. A secret mechanic's shop with a slide off the roof into the hot tub. Son to nephew: "no secret mechanic shops will happen if you ignore education and get addicted to drugs." Only he said it in a way a 10 year old boy could absorb.

God knows we tried such words on son, among a million other pisses in the wind trying to help him and assuage our own anxiety. Even in the less potent arena of regular old day to day parenting, knowing what to say to guide your child without pushing them, knowing how to comfort them without making their eyes roll so far back in their heads they can see the root of their optic nerves, knowing how to let them fall down so they can learn how to get up because some day they will need that skill is the holy grail. If I knew, my son would not be in prison. If I knew, my children would be happy every second of the day as they aced their exams and won the prize for "best kid to talk about in the doctor's lounge to impress everyone there" award.

I have no clue how to be a brave Mom. I think I will write a poem instead.

I Can Only Speak for Myself, as a Mother

The little hands
Six in all
Clasped mine
Expecting magic from the wands
Of my own fingers

Two that write
As predicted
By Fifth grade teacher
Tapping into third sight
Zen Master all grown

Two that draw
On bodies of imprisoned men
Ink found
Somewhere alongside awe
You never could sit still but now you can

Two that strive
Dragon claws
Clapping with delight
Not held by me until after five
I never want to let go

Expecting magic from the wands
My own fingers
Grasp
Like holding sand
Warm and slipping away.

-Jennifer Heidmann 5/12/18