About a week ago, our family ate dinner at Hut’s Burgers down on west 6th Street. It was a Saturday night...the night that the Final Four games were being played. So the streets were buzzing and anticipation permeated the air as people filtered between bars with outdoor TV screens blaring the game out into the sidewalks and streets. We’d spent our Saturday cheering for our kids at baseball and soccer games and completing some inevitable spring yard work in between...read: shoveling pollen. It was honestly what I’d call a perfect Saturday. We smelled like outside and everyone was sure to sleep good that night. So we went out for burgers.
Saturday night is almost always a night out for us, regardless of our appearance or attire. About a year ago, I realized the respite I received from closing down the kitchen after Saturday lunch and not having to plan, prep, cook, serve and clean up dinner on Saturday nights. So now it’s a routine for our family and it is a form of Sabbath for my soul, refraining from the everyday tasks and routines to rest, relax, enjoy and worship. So Saturday night dinners are low key...we don’t get dressed up. We don’t usually choose restaurants with waiters. It’s a moment of unwinding from the day, but also, the week. So when our four-year old daughter insisted that she wear her “Incredibles” pajamas, and we were like…”ok sure”.
We ate dinner. It was mostly uneventful. We played hangman on the back of the kids’ menus with the restaurant crayons and nobody spilled their glass of water. I’d call it a win.
After dinner, we navigated the street back to our parking garage. I made a conscious effort to hold tightly the hand of my daughter...the one in the Incredibles pj’s. For some reason that I’m still not quite sure of, my “anxious mom” instinct kicked in the moment we stepped out of the restaurant. I felt a strong need to hold her closely and tightly as we walked by all the bars and restaurants, people cheering, drinking, celebrating. People were everywhere and while she’s not a runner, she is tiny and I just had an instinct to hold her close. Maybe it was the pajamas. Or the excitement of the Auburn-Virginia game ending. Whatever it was, my senses were activated and I was specifically on guard regarding her.
As we stood at an intersection waiting to cross the street, she suddenly screamed. Loud. Pitchy. Fearful. It was one of those blood curdling screams that caused everyone nearby to turn and stare. I looked down and her face was red, eyes pinched with tears sprouting and mouth wide. I looked around to see if someone had touched her, stepped on her, or hurt her in some way that wasn’t immediately obvious, but saw nothing and noone.
Of course, everyone else was looking at ME to see what I had done to make her scream.
It felt like an eternity before she could spit out the words that a bug was crawling on her hand and had bit her. I almost rolled my eyes. I was HOLDING HER HAND! But sure enough, I looked down and a small red welt was puffing up into a blanched M&M-sized lump. There was a black something near the white spot. I wiped it away, thinking it was a smashed ant that maybe had blown onto her hand and bit her. She said it was a “crawling bee” and described what I recognized to be an “actual” bee. The smashed ant must have actually been the stinger and I regretted not taking a closer look before brushing it away. We’re assuming the bee landed on her hand, crawled around for a moment and then stung her on the thumb edge of her hand.
But I was holding her hand.
Intentionally.
And purposely and actively protecting her in that very moment from some sixth sense perceived threat that I felt around us. It all seemed so ironic that I was on guard to protect her, yet she was still vulnerable. Ironic that the way our fingers were intertwined meant that one inch over, and it would have stung me. And how I wished that it had. As we drove home, she stuffed down tears as her hand swelled up and then thankfully, subsided.
It got me thinking about parenting and the amount of control we think we have versus the reality of the world around us.
First, I was powerless to protect her from the one thing that actually harmed her. The one part of her body that I was holding ended up being the site of attack. The hand that should have been the most shielded was still exposed.
Second, I was protecting her from the wrong thing. If I had been looking at her, I would have seen the bee land on her. I would have brushed it away. But instead, I was looking out and around...and even at some of the tv screens. I was focused on the wrong threat. My wild imagination of what “could” go wrong distracted me from the actual and tangible threat she was subjected to.
And last, I would have gladly taken her place to keep her from suffering unnecessarily. Truly, it is your heart getting ripped out of your chest to powerlessly watch your child suffer. It’s another level when you believe the fault lies with you...whether real or perceived.
Now this story is about a bee sting. But aren’t those three things pretty true when it comes to parenting? How there are no guarantees? And how our level of control is actually much less than we perceive or desire? Don’t we sometimes metaphorically clutch our children close to protect them from all the “what if’s” in this world? With no guarantee that we're providing real protection or safety? Don’t we spend our time reading the horror story headlines and thinking worst-case? And wouldn’t we all gladly take their place?
But we can’t. We mustn’t. What we can do is teach and trust and pray and hope. And be available to hold their hands.