I feel physically ill. The news just came back that the body of the two-year-old dragged away by an alligator in Florida has been recovered. I can’t process it. My body is trembling and my eyes are heavy with tears on the cusp of falling. Two years old. Snatched by an alligator. At Disney World.
I always thought motherhood would make me stronger. I would have to be one tough cookie to care for children: feeding and nurturing them, keeping them safe, and helping them navigate the world. This is not a job for the weak.
And yet, I feel so weak. The news has me on edge. What kind of world do we live in? What kind of world have I brought my children into? An election entrenched in hatred and anger, the horrific Orlando massacre, the mom-shaming attack on that poor mother at the zoo, a rapist receiving 6 months of jail time because the court is worried about the impact jail will have on him. What. The. Fuck.
Sometimes I look at my two boys and I think God made a mistake in making me their mother. I’m just not strong enough to face this world head on and be the protector my sons need. I feel so weak, my heart crumbling every time I read the paper or listen to the radio. I tear up with every sad story. Hell, even movies or well-crafted commercials make me a blubbering fool.
They need a mother who’s resilient to outside forces. They need someone who can steer and uplift in an ugly world. They need a mom who can spot danger from a thousand miles away, teach them to be the change they wish to see in the world, and cut their sandwiches into perfect triangles… all before noon. My kids deserve better than the best. My kids deserve superhuman.
My kids. My kids are the most perfect things I’ve ever known. I look at them and see true beauty in life. I look at them and know that I will live and die for these boys, at any cost. And when I think about what I would do for them, I do feel strong. My head lifts and my chest swells. Even my heart quickens just thinking about how to keep them safe.
But then I read the news and I’m disheartened. Is nowhere safe? A night club. A zoo. Disney-Fucking-World.
I read recently that focusing on gratitude shifts our headspace from lingering on the past or worrying about the future. It keeps us present and focused on the only thing we really have control over — the now. I love this, because gratitude is something I have plenty of. Gratitude is what I’m built on. And this is advice I can run with. And I must, because if I spend too much time fantasizing about the what-ifs in a mysterious future, it will consume me completely.
And it has. I’ve let the worry of not being able to control my surroundings destroy me before. I’ve been afraid to leave the house. Leave my room. Leave that corner of the room where I could curl up in a fetal position and feel like this was the only space in the world where I had complete control. I’ve dug myself into that hole before and eventually climbed back out. Because that was existing. But that wasn’t living. And while I may not be strong, I’m strong enough to know better. And now that I’m a mother, my children need more than that. They need a mother who doesn’t just help them exist, but who shows them how to live!
I can’t help that poor family at Disney World, though I mourn for them. I can’t stop what happened at the night club in Orlando. I can’t change the past, or predict the future. But I can be grateful for all I have. I can feel blessed for this family, this home, and this life I live. And I can hug my boys with all my might. I’m their mother, and my love for them is stronger than anything.
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