The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother, and to become fully independent.
Yesterday, 32 families experienced a loss of incomprehensible magnitude, and as a nation and fellow members of the planet earth, we grieve with them and for them.
When the massacre at Columbine occurred, my Bethany was in high school, so the chill of fear was most palpable to me. We send our children off to school and entrust their care to others as we feverishly hope that we've taught them the skills they need in order to handle anything that gets thrown at them. I admit I was remiss in teaching my girls the intricacies of "duck and cover", "door barricading 101", and "creative ways to spend your time when your classroom is in lockdown". Call me irresponsible--I just never imagined that these were skills my kids would need to know!
As students were being slaughtered at Virginia Tech yesterday, my Alyssa, a senior at the University of Colorado, was attending classes in Boulder. Like the female students at Virginia Tech, she stumbled out of bed, brushed her hair into a pony tale, threw on jeans and a college-insignia sweatshirt, tossed her knapsack over her shoulder, popped her cell phone into her pocket and went to class. Like them, she is beautiful and brilliant and innocent, even if she does let her laundry pile up and can't return a piece of Tupperware to save her life. My fear is overwhelming. I want to call her right now and tell her to drop out, to blow off the last 5 weeks of school and come home where she will be out of harm's way. I want to call Bethany and tell her that she must commit to home-schooling baby Kaydi when she is old enough, for if the Amish children are not safe in their own schools, how will she be? Of course,, I cannot do that, for to do so would be to live a life ruled by fear, as opposed to one ruled by love. The logical unafraid piece of me knows that; the mother in me cannot fathom the unspeakable horror of knowing that one of my children would be slaughtered that way. I want them right in my sight, right now, so I can insure their safety.
Ever since my girls have been old enough to use the telephone, we have implemented the policy (oh hell--it's a requirement) of the "not dead" phone call. Only marginally tongue in cheek, this is known to my girls (and now to my Jeremy as well) as the 1. first thing one must do if one is going to be more than 10 minutes late 2. something they do every 12-24 hours if they are on an out-of-town trip, 3. something they must perform if they are doing anything--regardless of proximity to the mother ship (that would be me)--that involves them driving about in snowy weather conditions, or 4. something they must intuitively know is obligatory to perform on their part anytime I might be getting vaguely worried about their whereabouts. The "not dead phone call" is the check-in call they give so that I will rest easy, knowing that my world is intact, at least for the moment. My family knows they can get away with damn near anything as long as they don't lie to me and fervently practice the "not dead phone call" policy. As morbid as it sounds, it has alleviated many a sleepless night and it's one of the few things upon which I will not negotiate. Or, to paraphrase what my girls would say, "You'd better call and let Mom know you're okay, or she'll kill you!" Damn straight.
I heard today that as the emergency workers were removing the bodies of students from Norris Hall, that even as they did so, the students' cell phones, tucked into the pockets of their jeans and Virginia Tech hoodies, were ringing incessantly as anxious parents tried desperately to reach their kids, futilely waiting for the "hello, I'm okay" on the other end of the line. Those parents won't have the safe haven of having their kids answer the phone, and for them, their lives are irrevocably shattered.
When dear friends of mine lost their 18 year old daughter in a car crash a couple of years ago, her grieving father told me he "wasn't done". I knew immediately what he meant. Just because we send our children off to school and then to college, and after they marry and start families of their own, it doesn't mean we are "done". There is always more. More graduations, more hugs, more laughter, more grandbabies, more advice to give, more milestones, more chocolate cake, more experiences to share. No, we are not done......unless the Universe (or some crazed man with a gun) makes it so.
And then the icy grip of fear finds us...and we worry....and we imagine....and we grieve...
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