Cassandra

I will preface this post by saying that I recognize that losing my child has changed the way I parent. Though to be fair, I was just finding my parenting footing when my second daughter died. I have become much more strict about, say, jumping on the couch. We have done more Angie-friendly things around the house. For example, Sam built a balance beam for Beatrice that is an inch off the ground. We encourage jumping on the floor. If Beatrice climbs the tree in the front yard, she does it with a spotter. All in all, though, I try not to be too overly protective. I chide myself when I notice hovering. When people bandy around the words "helicopter parenting," I cringe. I do not want to become that mother.

I think falling, when done at a reasonable height or speed, can be a very good lesson. My girl was born with a healthy fear of heights and danger, for which I am incredibly grateful. It simply does not occur to her to stand on the table. She watches other children do it with her mouth agape, then she looks back at me with an amazement and fear. Having grown up playing sports and watching sports, I want her to have a sense of her body, understand her center of gravity, and learn how to fall. Just not too far.

I'm sure it doesn't help that my husband works in a pediatric operating room. He regales me with stories of childhood accidents. I don't exactly mind. I would rather he talk about his day than internalize his work experiences. He sees things that people are not supposed to see. Ever. But it isn't always comforting to know how many children are in the operating room for jumping on couches, playing ball in the front yard, getting hit by vehicles even though they knew they weren't supposed to run into the street, or even say skewered with a television antennae after jumping off the couch. I am reminded daily that life can change in an instant to well-meaning, wonderful, loving parents.

So, all that being said, let me just admit that I am a hysterical wreck when other children are visiting our home. I have this urge, like when we leave the dog alone, to put tables and ottomans on all the furniture. But I have a much stronger urge to shake other parents by the shoulders.

Do not test the Gods. Do not experiment with the universe. Gravity works. On your child too. No one, not even highly intelligent people, are above the laws of physics.

I have always been prone to fatalism and magical thinking. I tend to read my world like Greek myth. "Oh, that hubris is NOT going to end well," I lean back, fold my arms over my chest and shake my head. "Oh, Goddesses, be kind this time."  In the last year, I have tried to reject thinking around larger plans of the universe, or learning lessons or any of that kind of crap. If Lucy died of a childhood disease, I would be out campaigning, educating people on the symptoms, talking to Congress about funding research, or doing anything to prevent another family from going through loss. But we don't know why she died. Nothing I could have done or not done would have prevented her death, even counting kicks, (at least that is what we are told.) I cannot exactly campaign against the random cruelty of the universe. And yet, I feel like I am on exactly that crusade sometimes.

On one hand, I would not wish this type of anxiety and worry over children on anyone, and on quite another, I feel like begging other parents not to challenge fate on the matter. I don't want them to live in fear, and yet I want them to be mindful of how quickly their lives can change. I know it sounds like I will never be satisfied, and it is true. There is nothing satisfying about dealing with this loss--no matter how many people stop complaining and start enjoying their pregnancies or no matter how many people hold their children a little tighter. I want my baby back, and I would give a thousand lessons and all my wisdom for her life. But since she is gone and I cannot bargain in that way, I think maybe I want people to lose some of their arrogance about the safety of their children. I am beginning to despise in them what I despise about my former self.

My daughter is two and three-quarters, so we hang out with other toddler-aged children. People that allow all manner of freedom and folly. And I find my stomach in great big knots. Later I feel a great deal of embarrassment and shame when I reflect on their blasé attitude. I internalize it and feel judged. It is as though what I hear when someone is letting their kid jump wantonly on my couch swinging a bat is that my child's death happened because of something inherent in my character or person. People seem to interact with the world as though suffering will not touch them. Sure, my child was stillborn. She wasn't jumping on the bed when she died, but I see it all colored with the same brush. It can happen. That thing you think could never happen to you. It happened to me. Regardless of class, intelligence, health, body size and race, it can happen. You cannot outsmart your way out of an accident. To see someone flaunt their confidence in nothing happening makes me feel so very Other. So very flawed. I want to scream, "Loss is not specific to me."

Yet, it feels impossible to say to my friend, "Sure, that incredibly dangerous thing your child is doing will probably end well, but what if it doesn't?" In some ways, I feel like Cassandra, screaming a future no one will heed. Or perhaps that is not fair, I cannot say that my hysterical accident-prone mind is the future. For a hundred incidents I imagine in my head, it could be the one hundred and first that breaks a bone. For the amount of reckless abandon, a child might not get hurt. I just want to spare the world this experience of having to learn to live without one of your babies, or even to live with the guilt of seeing one of your babies hurt. I feel so impotent. So unable to speak the words. So afraid of becoming one of those harping snooty mothers that sees disaster at every turn, lecturing other more laid-back mothers. Yet, each incident sort of haunts me for weeks, even months.

I cannot rid the world of suffering. I cannot prevent pain and accidents. No matter how much padded my house becomes.

I tend not to make new year resolutions as such. Rather I tend to make challenges or set goals for the new year. This year, I am taking on the Creative Every Day Challenge, and still life 365, which is about infusing my life with more art, creativity, healing and love. But personally, intellectually and emotionally, I want to stop this cycle of judging others, or trying to control their fate, their words, the ideas about loss, their ideas about parenting, or worrying whether or not they judge me for my daughter's death. I want to redirect my focus towards caring about my own fate and my own blame. And then I really really need to work on forgiveness and compassion.