The anatomy of a mother’s thoughts.

The other day, as I was pushing 80 MPH in a 70 MPH zone, to get from Point A to Point B quickly, I glanced down and noticed for the first time how fast I was going. I was propelling myself and my children through a sea of metal at a rate higher than what was recommended for safety. I started to really think about what I was doing, that I was in a vehicle that was moving amongst other vehicles and that, though I was responsible for keeping my vehicle under control and safe as I was transporting my Beans, I had no control of anything or anyone around us. And we were moving fast. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around it. I shook my head as if to physically rid the thoughts that were accumulating in my mind.

Obviously, I’m not going to stop driving, but the thought of what could potentially happen in a vehicle which, quite frankly, I’m not skilled at driving properly, jarred me.

And then I began to think of other things. Maybe all mothers do this at one point or another. Maybe the range of concern spirals from spontaneous curiosity to bone-chilling obsession. I just began thinking.

Of when they won’t be with me.

Of when they take the school bus for the first time.

Of when they ride their bikes around the neighborhood.

Of when they sit in a dark theater with their friends.

Of when they run to the store for a pack of gum.

And then I think about what may not physically hurt them but what may break their heart.

I admit that I once shed tears at the play area of the local mall. Granted, I may have been PMS-ing just a bit, but I sat along the sides with J and the other parents, watching the Beans play and interact with the other children. I saw their contradictory personalities in their play. A moved amongst the children with ease and confidence, and a bit of an attitude. M, on the other hand, gingerly followed her sister. Where she would normally be the aggressor between the two of them, she was timid and uncertain. At one point, Maggie tried to go to Audrey, who was looking in a mirror at the other side of the play area. A little boy was running between them and this frustrated Maggie and made her turn and run back to us in anger. We consoled her and gently pushed her back into the crowd and eventually she made it to Audrey. But the damage was done in my mind. I said to J, “What if, one day, she is left behind because Audrey is off with her friends? What if she feels intimidated or unwelcome?” It brought me to tears in the middle of the mall. I began thinking.

Of when they will have their heart broken.

Of when they will be lonely.

Of when they will feel different, unsure, scared.

Last night, Jack’s friend was killed in a car accident. I was afraid to call him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to hear the anguish in his voice. I didn’t want to think that it could have easily been him.

I realize that I can’t protect them. Though I’d love to gather them up into a bubble of security and comfort for the rest of their lives, so that they never have to feel pain, physical or otherwise, I know that it’s not really what they need. I can’t keep them from mishaps, from accidents, from jerks or from failure. I can’t keep them from life. That would be the greatest crime.