When my son was born in 1983, I was 22 years old and didn’t know the first thing about babies. While all of my friends were babysitting when we were 12 or 13, I was out partying and getting high. In fact, I don’t think I had ever even held a baby. Finding out I was pregnant three months into my recovery from addiction, I was terrified, but I knew I wanted this baby more than anything in the world.
Ross was born on April 19, 1983. Bringing him home from the hospital was one of the scariest days of my life. How was I going to keep him alive? Was this some weird joke the universe was playing by making me responsible for a human being? Hell, I couldn’t even keep a plant alive. But here he was totally under my care. I had to learn to do the basics like changing diapers, heating bottles, and giving baths. I’m sure I fell short on the bathing from time to time.
When Ross was about two months old, he was resting on a blanket on the living room floor and I was staring at him to make sure he was breathing. I did this a lot. If I didn’t see his little chest rising and falling, I’d put my hand on him to feel his movement. Sometimes I would gently shake him awake to validate he was in good shape. As I was watching him that day, he spit up a massive amount of milk and began to make gurgling sounds. For some reason, I got it in my head he was choking and I panicked. Instead of picking him up and holding him upright, I jumped up and ran to the kitchen where the ugly yellow phone hung on the wall. Hysterical, I dialed 911 and told them my infant son was choking and they needed to come immediately. Without waiting for further instruction, I gave my address and hung up the phone. Next, I called my father who lived about a three minute walk from me. Screaming into the phone that Ross was dying, I begged him to get here as fast as he could. My father was a retired physician with severe emphysema and was dependent on oxygen. He could no longer drive but had a golf cart that he used to get around the neighborhood.
Hearing the news of his grandson’s imminent death, he jumped on the golf cart in his pajamas with his burdensome oxygen tank and flew up the hill to try and save Ross’ life. He arrived about the same time as the ambulance and paramedics. They all entered my small apartment and found me on the sofa crying uncontrollably and Ross on the blanket kicking his feet and smiling. He was fine of course. Everyone looked at me in disbelief as if to say “What is wrong with you? Are you crazy?” Why yes, I’m pretty sure I am. This pretty much sums up how I felt as a parent. It's like I never knew what to do and I always felt like something awful was going to happen and I had to constantly be ten steps ahead to prevent a tragedy. I always joke with my friends that I’d make a great risk assessor for a big company. Imagining the worst case scenarios is a specialty of mine.
My first grandchild, Charlie, was born on March 3, 2021. Getting ready for a grandchild during Covid has been challenging to say the least. I spent 15 days in strict quarantine so I could stay with them and help with the new baby. In my mind, having a grandchild would be so different from having my own children. That’s what people told me. They lied. Holding Charlie for the first time was magical. That part was true. I stared at him as we rocked in the wooden rocking chair and thought he couldn’t be more perfect. Then I thought about all of the fun things I want to do with him as he grows up. Then I started worrying.
Worry is such a familiar feeling for me and is somehow built into my DNA. As I rocked him to sleep, I wondered how we were going to keep the dogs from jumping on him. What if he rolled under his mama while they were sleeping and he suffocated? What if I drop him by accident and he hits his head? What if the car they have isn’t safe enough to protect him in the event of a crash? What if he covers his little face with his mittens and can’t breath?
For me, worry is evidence of my separation from God. The more afraid I am, the more I try to control the world around me - it snowballs and negatively impacts every person and situation in my life. I am better off using that energy to build trust and faith in my Higher Power instead of managing and controlling the environment around me, most of which I can’t do a damn thing about anyway. It’s so easy to have faith when everything is going my way or when I’m not burdened by fear and worry. Little effort or courage is required under those conditions. But I have to dig deep to get faith when things are beyond my control.
Here are some things that help me get closer to God when I am weighed down by fear and worry. First, I have to quit trying to control the world. I am not in charge of the universe - thank God. In fact, most things turn out better when I don’t have my hands in them. Next, staying focused on the present moment is helpful. At this moment right now, everything is ok. Prayer and meditation are also useful for getting grounded and focused on the positive. Having quiet moments to talk with God instead of keeping those thoughts in my head can make a big difference. Another technique that helps is visualizing myself giving a situation over to God. Imagining placing Charlie in God’s arms gives me comfort and peace. Finally, I have to get busy doing something constructive. Making a phone call to someone having a hard time, cooking a meal, or taking a hike are all ways to redirect my negative thoughts and energy.
On my last night at my son’s house, I was sitting in the living room by myself. Ross and his wife, Chariz, Wayne, and little Charlie were getting ready for bed. Like they do every night, they were in the bedroom talking to God together. I could hear them as they recited several prayers out loud in unison. They were calm and thoughtful in their words. I knew in that instant that little Charlie was going to be fine and it was ok for me to enjoy him without feeling responsible. He is in very capable hands. As I rocked in that wooden rocking chair in the corner of the living room, I stopped worrying, sighed, and smiled. God is Good. Always.
Love your posts! Those first few weeks, months, years (?!) of motherhood are scary cause we just don't want our loved ones to be hurt. But you are so right....placing them, and ourselves, in God's hands is the best, and safest place to be! Thank you for the reminder :)
No mistake, this showed up in my inbox at the perfect time. Thank you, Carol Lind....G-d strikes again!
I love this and you. Thank you!