Hovering

I've never been a helicopter parent - you know, the kind that hover around their kids constantly, making sure nothing bad ever happens? I've been pretty okay with letting the kids learn by making their own mistakes, falling down, getting scrapes.

And I don't hover even now... but I do push my inner panic button a lot faster than I ever used to.

A few days ago we went to a picnic, and the kids were off playing with all the others on the equipment, in the sandbox. At eight and almost-seven, they're pretty self-sufficient in those situations. We give them clear boundaries, and they've learned over the years to respect them. So when I did my every-five-minute cursory look-over of the playground and couldn't find my son, I didn't panic. I just kept looking, my eyes sweeping over the playscape, the sandbox, looking for his striped shirt. 

"Honey, have you seen D.?" I asked my husband. Was my voice as scared as I felt? My heart was beating fast now, visions of him being snatched dancing in my head. Before William died, thoughts like that might occur to me - but the physical reaction, the sheer panic rising in my throat within moments of discovering him missing, that was new. Because now I knew - we weren't in some plastic bubble. Bad things happened, and they could, indeed, happen to us. They could, in fact, happen to us again... and again.

My husband stood up, doing what I'd done, scanning the park, his brow furrowed, and I knew I'd pushed his panic button, too. We both have hair-triggers lately. 

"No," he replied after a moment, shaking his head. "Where did you see him last?" 

Last... the last time I saw him. That phrase made me turn cold. It couldn't possibly be, and yet the fear catches you, freezes you, makes it hard to breathe, like sucking in broken glass. Please, god, let there never be a "last time" I see my child, ever again, unless I'm the one whose number is up, okay? 

A friend of ours started looking too, sensing my panic, I think, and my husband took three steps toward the playground before he stopped, pointing, "There he is!" as my son stepped out from behind the huge tree trunk that had hidden him from our view. Oh my god, the relief. I sagged against the picnic table, my heart still in my throat. 

"Like I need another thing, right?" I joked to my friend. 

She smiled sympathetically and nodded. "Right."

But I knew better... I didn't get a free pass. Just because one child was dead didn't mean I couldn't lose another one. 

Then, last night, the girl-child was playing with her brother's Legos and decided to try to take one of the pieces off with her teeth. Suddenly she stood up, her face a mask of fear: "I can't breathe!" she choked and then nothing... 

My husband and I both lunged for her at once and she coughed and gasped and spit a yellow Lego brick into her hand, "I got it!" 

M. yelled, "If you ever put anything like that in your mouth again, I'll kill you myself!" 

He was scared, and I think trying to scare her a little. But he didn't need to scare her - she was already pretty scared. He didn't really need to scare any of us. We don't need events like that, anymore, to tip the scales. We're already scared, all the time. We're the walking horrified. The risk is real, too real, the fear beating like a pulse at our throats. We check on each other more often, get panicked when we're home late or things happen that are out of the ordinary and out of our control.

William taught us that life is both precious and precarious. And still, I wish we'd never had to learn that lesson. I wish William were still alive and we were still blissfully ignorant, solid in our belief in that invisible force field surrounding us that never really existed. I don't know if William is watching - it's a nice thought, but I don't quite really believe it, just as I no longer have faith that we're all gonna be okay. It would be sweet to think he's an angel protecting us now... but that thought goes logically out the window for me when I wonder... where was his angel, then? What lazy-ass slacker angel was on watch the day William died, huh? I'd like to get my hands on that fella...

So no... I'm not sure we have an angel watching over us in the form of my infant son. But I am sure that we don't take each other for granted in the same way we used to. Life's moments are bittersweet now but we taste them fully, appreciate them a great deal more. And our eyes and ears are sharp, tuned in to danger, as much as they can be. Even knowing we're not in control. Even knowing we can't always prevent tragedy.

I don't know if William's spirit is here and hovering over us. Sometimes I wish it were true. Days when my children defy the laws of physics or nearly send me into heart failure, I wish I could rely on some guardian angel protecting us. But I can't know that. 

There may or may not be someone or something looking out for us, I don't know. It's the not knowing that keeps me watchful and wary. It's the not knowing that pushes my panic buttons. Because if there are such forces, well... there was clearly no one on watch when William died. Someone fell asleep at the switch and my son paid the price. It's hard to rely on such arbitrary protection. I'd rather keep my eyes and ears open and do what I can... even if it's not enough.

And hold my children close. I've been doing a lot of that lately. We all hold each other tighter these days. A lot tighter.