Not Done

I have two more years, two more years till my youngest turns 5. I thought it would all be over then. I thought I would be safe after his toddler years were behind me, and the worrying would be, by in large, over. The toddler stage is all about keeping them from drinking inappropriate liquids, swallowing small items that hold monetary value, and choking on beef, chicken, turkey, or soy products that are perfectly shaped to block little windpipes. It was about protecting heads from pointy-sharp objects that seem to lurk in every corner and small fingers from electrical sockets.

I get word today that a friend's teenager, my friend's child, has been diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma disease. I see that it's not over, and that in every moment, until my last breath, I will be terrified of losing my children. My only defense is the "not my kid" approach and then I realize it's not much of defense at all, just a thin illusion that allows my survival. Survival...at its rawest.

That is what I want to tell you about mothering. It's not the loss of sleep, the guilt, or even the moments of rage that are beyond painful, it's the lie that we all tell ourselves. "I'll be fine, once I can get past this toddler stage."