Failure

15 days ago my 6 yr old daughter was hit by a car. Everyday since 7:15 p.m. on Tuesday, August 8, I have struggled with my failure to protect my child. It is destroying me.

We, my husband and I, were standing across the street in the driveway of a neighbor, engrossed in conversation, adult talk. But that is a lie, for every mother knows the only time you can be engrossed in conversation is when your children are asleep in bed, or being cared for by someone else and NOT in eye shot of you.

Our children were across the street in our house. Two were in the backyard playing, the third and youngest was on the other side of the street. I had my eye on him while trying to maintain a conversation that entailed finishing coherent and complete sentences. I was multi-tasking a conversation.

Suddenly, my daughter is moving towards the end of the driveway, on her scooter wearing a helmet. I do not see her, my husband does. He watches as she looks to her right, but not to her left. He sees what she does not see. He sees the car. He is yelling, “Stop! Stop!” Each successive yell louder, and more forceful, each filled with increasing fear. I see that it’s too late. She is looking at us, eyes big, working our alarm down from her ears to her body trying to obey. She meets the front of the car and disappears from view.

I am screaming “Oh My God! Oh My God!” over and over and over again. I turn my back to the scene. I am bent over, hugging myself looking for a way to run. I want to clutch myself into oblivion. My husband and my neighbor are gone, having disappeared also around the car. I walk into the bushes of my neighbor’s house wanting only to go away from her, the daughter that has disappeared.

The others have reacted differently. I do not see them run towards her. I, unable to escape finally turn to face the car. Observing my daughter as her blood leaves her body or as she lays rag-doll like on the ground is something I cannot do. I just simply cannot do it, even if it means missing her last breath. I know later, if she dies, I will regret that decision. It doesn’t matter. I can do nothing in this moment. I am one of the useless hysterical mothers we see on t.v. and I am filled with shame.

I run around the back end of the car, into my house, to the phone, averting my face. I can only utter “My daughter has been hit by a car,” before the woman is telling me to take deep breaths and that she can’t understand me. I remember hearing my daughter shrieking. She is conscious, that is good, I think. That is good. I am trying to breathe deeply so I can impart valuable information to the woman on the phone who is trying to help me. The expression “a scream that wells up inside” is accurate. I am impressed by its precise description. My neighbor is unexpectedly here in the kitchen with me, holding me and the anguish subsides enough to tell the dispatcher everything she needs to know.

I am breathless. My heart if it is not broken is trying hard to burst from my chest. I cannot help her. I see my 6’6” husband sitting on the stoop, cradling and rocking her. My daughter is sobbing. He and I look at each other. “I am sorry” I say in my mind. “I cannot help you.” His eyes hold the terror of not understanding what just happened. I cannot bear the site of her blonde-brown hair hanging over his arms.

At that moment, when I passed the doorway, unable to approach her or him, I felt that I had failed my mother test. The image of mother as the great protector was not my reality. I was not careful or watchful enough to protect my daughter. And worse, I was in the middle of a “selfish” act, talking to a neighbor, filling up my emotional tank when the accident happened. Good mothers are careful of where they stand when they talk to neighbors. Good mother do not turn to Jell-O during a crisis. A good mother faces her child, bloodied or not and comforts her. I didn’t comfort. I broke.

There is this myth that we, as mothers, can shield our children completely. That if we are all-vigilant and all-protecting, our children will never have to deal with sexual predators, bullies and cars driving down a road. And while we understand logically it’s impossible, it doesn’t stop us from passing judgment on others and ourselves for failing in this arena. The myth of motherhood, with its unrealistic expectations and its supplementary public demands is a trap. There is no space to be human, to err, only space for guilt about making the “wrong” choice. Being a good mother is synonymous with the being perfect. I was and am not perfect. And somehow, in my imperfection, I deal with the idea that the accident was my fault and is due to my failure as a mother. That is the most dangerous thought of all.

Follow up: Pallas is ok. She did slow down enough to hit the side panel of the car and not the front of it. The drag marks from her scooter are 30 feet long. They are still visible on the street in front of our house. She was wearing a helmet, a habit we have fought with our kids about. It might have saved her life. At the least, it saved her many stitches.