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The Knife’s Edge I did not see the danger of that accelerating green car. I was right there, and I did not see it. I told Anton to "Go! Now!" He shot off ahead of us because he no longer has training wheels. I was maneuvering the stroller and three-year-old Anne’s bike. The car slammed on the brakes and barely missed him. The driver did not even stop to verify that all of us were all right. In the aftermath of this near tragedy, I was left to wonder at how life changing events often strike like lightning, and forever alter the fabric of our lives. But for luck or divine intervention, we might have been left picking up the pieces, wondering how to proceed. I was riddled with guilt because I believed that I had failed Anton as a mother. I did not see the danger. And I reflected on all that might have been lost: his joy in running and playing, his gentle smile, the divine spark that is my son. My mother consoled me by saying: "Don’t think about such things. There’s no point to it. Look at it as a cheap lesson. Don’t cross that busy street alone with your kids, and make Anton dismount from his bike at road crossings in the future." She was correct that guilt over what might have happened was a useless emotion. However, this experience caused me to reflect. I know that most mothers share the prayer that their children stay well and happy. Sometimes, I even pray for the confidence that should anything, God forbid, ever happen to my loved ones, I would be convinced that they were in a better place. But I cannot imagine a more devastating loss. My father claims that "When we lose someone, our pain results from our lack of access to them." I believe that, but I need to trust in a heaven. So, I pray for faith. That night, I stood in Anton’s bedroom, just watching him breathe. It struck me once more how fragile we and our lives are. Every day, we walk the knife’s edge and are barely cognizant of this fact. My mother-in-law once told me that, when her children were little, she used to look at obituaries and grimly imagine her own children’s. She remarked to me, "I was relieved when they all finally made it to five-years-of-age, because I felt like they had at least made it that far and now they had a fighting chance." Such reflections minimize my daily struggles and frustrations to nothing. By God’s grace, a with-it guardian angel, or luck, I will enjoy my golden boy for another day. My mother claims that "Our children are God’s angels loaned to us for as long as He/She sees fit." Every day that we are given with them should be treasured. I am reminded of a line from the old Irish marriage blessing: "May you to live to see your children’s children." Such a gift would, indeed, be the ultimate blessing of a full life. In my mind’s eye, I see my grandmother rocking my son and singing him the same songs that she sang to my mother, and my mother to me. He was born only four months before she died. How precious must it have been to her to hold him? Soon, I may forget my terror. The power of it will erode away under the weight of laundry, dinner, baths, and story times. But at least for a little while, I have better appreciated the miracle of my son: a boy who draws rainbows around the word "Dad," colors hearts around "Mom," a boy who plays air guitar to Alan Jackson and tries to sing in Italian with Dean Martin, a boy who loves puzzles and dinosaurs. Having children is the ultimate state of vulnerability, but one for which I am eternally grateful. Caroline Akervik is a freelance writer whose humorous reflections on family life have been published in both print publications and on e-zines. Her romantic suspense novel, Calypso’s Secret, written under the pen name Isabelle Kane, will be released by Whiskey Creek Press in May of 2005. Look for more of her work at www.isabellekane.com. |
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