Chapter 24. An Alphabet of Worry

It’s the second night home from the hospital. My baby boy grunts at my breast but he’s useless at suckling. Poor guy just hasn’t figured it out yet. I let him linger on my nipple a while longer hoping he’ll get the hang of it. Wisps of his dark hair trim my elbow and I wish I could clutch his warm little body in the crook of my arm all night without struggling to feed him. As I poke my fingers around in the cushion of the rocking chair, digging for the rubber handle of the baby nail clippers, crumbs and sand get caught under my nails. Finally, I unearth my treasure and trim his strawberry-seed-sized fingernails. Miniature halos, like golden crescents fall to the floor. He smells like flowers and raisins.

Suddenly, his mouth is wide shrieking from hunger. I call my husband to bring the breast pump, some thawed milk, and a feeding line. I hand him the baby. He looks tired and wrinkly around the eyes, so much more wrinkly than when we did this five years ago. I resent the fact that he’s getting more sleep than I. In a split second, the sleep deprivation has turned to rage and he can see it in my eyes.

“Why don’t you skip a pumping session tonight?” he asks. 

“I can’t,” I say, “my supply will go down.” 

“You need to sleep. You can pump extra tomorrow or I can pick up some formula at the store,” he says. 

“I’m not a monster.” I spit the words out at the mention of the F-word. Poison.

My standards are as high as the moon outside the window. In the distance, Christmas lights pulsate in rhythm to the robotic voice of the breast pump. Let. It. Go. Let. It. Go. Let. It. Go. This is years before the Disney blockbuster Frozen makes that phrase ubiquitous for freeing oneself from being that perfect girl. But I can’t. I won’t. I don’t know it at the time, but the fears that still control me are all consuming.

He takes the baby away to feed and leaves me attached to the wall via the pump. My five-year-old daughter pops her head into the room, announcing “Mama, you’re a cow!” then leaves immediately. 

“Yes I am,” I say, strangely proud that at least I can do this right. My births may not have gone as planned, but at least I still have one super power, I can make milk. After she scuttles out of the room, I’m left alone to scrutinize the carefully chosen wall décor. There’s a tree with each letter of the alphabet inscribed on a leaf. A yellow mother owl and her baby rest on a brown curly cue branch. Plump little blue birds take flight above the ABC canopy. The color scheme for the dawn of 2011 approaches. There are lots of gray and brown polka dots everywhere.

I rest my eyes on the letters and begin to make my own associations. Instead of A is for apple, B is for ball, and C is for cat, mine is an alphabet of worry and it goes like this:

A is for Anxiety About Accidents All the time.

B is for Bee stings that swell their fingers into little sausages

C is for Choking. I remember sweeping her mouth clear of carrot chunks. Next time the culprit is a nefarious bite of hot dog. She hurls it out of her throat before I have to flip her over for an upside-down whack on the back.

D is for a vitamin and lack of it. Should I apply sunscreen on them or not?

E is for Earthquake drills and kits that leave my four-year-old with visions of being left overnight at school in a devastated city with a letter from me that says, “I love you and I will be there as soon as I can.”

F is for Febrile seizures that take my toddler’s breath away for minutes at a time, resulting in calls to 911 with sirens and ambulances at my home. “Nothing to worry about, he’ll outgrow them.” says the pediatrician.

G is for God’s Grace, something I never really believed or understood until having kids.

H is for Hot, heaters, stoves, ovens, fireplaces and campfires.

I is for Intruders. The windows next to her bed don’t lock. Someone could break in at night and take her away without me knowing. Yet, I still don’t bolt the backdoor during the day. Isn’t having a dog enough? That’s a lot of responsibility to put on our pit-bull. 

J is for Just keep them alive. That’s really what it comes down to.

K is for Keep the phone charged at all times, which won’t help if I can’t find it.

L is for Lost. I’ll turn around at a festival and he will be gone. My eyes will open wide as the panic ricochets inside my chest. I will turn to my left to face an endless sea of people. I will turn to my right and see only bodies pressed against bodies. I’ll calculate the moments between remaining calm in order to find him and the moment I begin to frantically yell, “Help me! My child is lost!” I’ll catch a glimpse of his dark hair disappearing into the masses ten bodies away from me. He’ll be moving quickly trying to find me. More bodies will replace the path between us. I’ll force my way through, following him while leaving my daughter behind. But at least I’ll know where I left her. Finally, he’ll be set free, standing alone, crying out for me as I’ll step toward him and grasp his pudgy hand.

M is for Mama. “I love you Mama, more than you love me,” she said. 

“That’s not possible. I love you more. That’s my job,” I said.

“It is possible Mama, I love you more,” she said.

“I loved you before you were born,” I said. 

“But you’re going to die first and then I’ll miss you for the rest of my life,” she said.

A summer breeze delicately lifted the curtains as I silently squeezed her against my heart. Maybe she’s right.

N is for “No!” and how I hope I can teach my daughters, and especially my son, the power of this word.

O is for “Oh, but brushing your teeth is fun!” I tell her as I gob the fluoride-free toothpaste onto her brush. She runs away like a sprite in the night. Since I haven’t decided how bad it is, I think Maybe I better get the fluoride kind next time.   

P is for Pesticides, Patience and Pleading. Non-organic is so much cheaper. I try to remember the clean fifteen and avoid the dirty dozen. Please don’t let anything horrible happen to my kids. Please grant me the patience to enjoy them more than yell at them.

Q is for Questions like this that I’m afraid I’ll forget because I’ve forgotten so much already. “Why is my angel in the garden?” he’ll ask. “What do you mean?” I’ll say. “My gardening angel,” he‘ll say. “Your guardian angel you mean?” And he’ll look at me perplexed.

R is for Roseola, Fifth’s Disease, Hand Foot and Mouth, and all the other childhood sicknesses they never tell you your kids will get until they do. The first symptom is always “fever that lasts for five or more days.” Simple as that.

S is for SIDS and Suffocation. For the first four months, I’ll never let him sleep alone. I’ll give him a pacifier when I read that they’re reported as reducing the risk of SIDS. Big Sister will innocently enter his room to put a blanket on her baby brother, later I’ll find the baby swaddled with that blanket muffling his cries. He’ll have kicked it up onto his face. Spared by God’s Grace again.

T is for tub. When he’s five, I’ll think It’s fine to let him play in the tub while I make dinner. The door will be ajar so I can hear him, but I’ll notice it’s been quiet for too long. When I enter the bathroom, the shower curtain will be pulled to the side, only his legs will be visible lying prone in the water. His arms will be crossed with his head resting on them, his face partially in the water. I’ll call his name. I’ll say it again when my hands are on him. He’ll groggily turn to me, slowly waking up as I lift him from the water. I’ll be crying tears of gratitude as I dry him off wiping the terror away. I never imagined he would fall asleep in there. Spared again.

U is for Unlimited screen time, which will destroy her mind, so I guiltily keep it to 1 hour a day (unless I need a nap or have something I must get done.) 

V is for Vaccinated and Vigilance. For years I avoid vaccinating, because it’s poison too. I choose certain ones, wisely and selectively, hoping they won’t die of a childhood disease or spread it. Sooner or later, guilt gets the better of me and I decide it’s time to get them fully immunized. If I can be vigilant enough, if I can avoid being tired, lazy, or forgetful they might survive. Until I realize even that’s not certain because I’m pretty sure the other mothers, the ones that lost their children, they were being just as vigilant. 

W is for Whooping Cough. The speed at which my husband will go from snoring on his pillow to our son’s bed is three seconds. One Mississippi: My son’s violent cough wakes us up. Two Mississippi: My husband is on his feet because my son will be vomiting and unable to breath. Three Mississippi: My son is whooping, trying to inhale at the same time, as my husband cleans up his bloody nose. The noise will stir our new baby girl. I’ll pull her closer as she hacks herself back to sleep. Her case of pertussis will be mild. I can’t imagine it being any worse, for either of them. 

X is for toXic breast milk. Skull and cross bones toxic. I can’t think about that brochure from the hospital warning me about the levels of PCB’s and heavy metals my baby may absorb through the fat in my milk. Poison. Nope, don’t think about that.

Y is for Yucky, icky, nasty, putrid, frighteningly fetid things that my children will put into their mouths: cigarette butts, pennies, bird poop, their own poop, dog doo, sand box cat droppings, rotten food found in their car seats and accidental amounts of medicine meant for their sibling.

 Z is for Zzzz’s. I rest my head against the back of the rocking chair and close my eyes for a moment. The last thing I see is a bit of moon carved into the black night sky, shaped like a fingernail.

—excerpt from my memoir, Thoughts No Mother Should Have