Alone

photo credit: katy tuttle photography

The Big One turned to me today- out of nowhere, in the middle of lunch- and said, "Mommy?  When I'm big, can I go everywhere with my family?  I want to stay with my family.  I don't want to be alone.  I'm scared to be all alone."

And then my heart broke into a million little pieces.

*   *   *

Earlier today, he and the Little One ran ahead of my husband and me in the hallway.  They jumped into the elevator before we even turned the corner.  They are normally so good about waiting for us.  But this time, this time they forgot.  And as we turned the corner and the elevator doors closed, I heard the Big One yell quietly in surprise, "Nooooo!!!!"  

We ran as fast as we could, but we couldn't get to the elevator before it started moving.  They had already pushed the buttons inside when the doors closed.  My husband bolted down the staircase and I waited where I was, in case they followed the directions I had once given them to stay where they were.  I was hoping they would come right back.  But they didn't.  I could hear the Big One whimpering softly.  He was scared.  I listened as the elevator stopped at this floor, and then that one.  I didn't know which.  And then I couldn't hear them anymore.  And I couldn't hear my husband.  

I started to yell through the elevator doors, hoping they could hear me.  

"Are you okay?  Boys?!?  Babe, do you have them?"

Nobody answered.

I opened the door to the concrete stairwell and yelled down the staircase.

"Did you get them?  Are they there?  BOYS?!?"

Still nothing.  

I had no idea what to do.  The elevator was still moving up and down, up and down, but I couldn't hear them anymore.  Was I supposed to stay?  Should I run down and try to find them?  What do I do?

I was pressing the elevator button and trying to listen in the stairwell and the elevator shaft, when I finally heard them.  I heard my husband quietly telling them that he was frightened.  How scary that was.  That they mustn't ever do that again.

The doors opened.  The Big One walked out, looking stunned, and wrapped his arms around my legs.

"Mommy.  I was lost.  I didn't want to be alone.  I lost my family."  

I knelt down and hugged him.  I told him how scary that was.  How I didn't know where he was or how to get to him.  I told him that he must never do that again.  

The Little One bounded around us, unfazed and babbling excitedly about his adventure.  

"Mommy!  Lost!"

We talked about what happened with the Big One as we walked back down the hallway- how he shouldn't have run ahead, how we've talked about this before.  We told him he'd done a good job staying with his little brother and that he kept him safe, and that was good.  

I asked my husband where he'd found them, and he told me they were the first place he looked- the lobby of our building.  We never go to the lobby.  I have no idea why they got off there.  I asked my husband why he went there first, since it seemed most likely that they'd have gone to the garage where we were headed.  He shrugged.  Said he had no idea.  He just went there first because it was the closest to the street.  And if they'd gone out into the street...

I shook my head.  That wouldn't have been where I would have looked.  I'm glad he went down the stairs instead of me.  I told the Big One it might have taken me a while to find them, and that scared me.  I asked him to please, please, never do that again.  He nodded, but he just kept saying the same thing over and over.

"I lost my family.  I was alone.  I lost my family."

*   *   *

I see so much of myself in this little big boy of mine.  Some of it fills me with pride, and some of it makes me worry for him.  

I know his fear of being alone.  I had the very same fear when I was a little girl.  In some ways, I still do.

I got lost riding my bike to a park one day when I was seven and very nearly lost my little mind.  I was inconsolable.  People stopped their cars on the street to see if I was okay.  I wasn't.

They helped me find my way, eventually, but the seed was already planted.  I could get left behind.  I could be left alone.

When I was eight, my parents tried to leave me home alone for a reasonably short period of time because they couldn't find a babysitter.  I was a responsible little girl and was perfectly capable of staying home alone for a little while.  But I had never stayed home alone, and I was terrified.  I begged my mother to stay home, to find me a sitter, anything but leave me alone.  I remember so clearly the feeling of panic, tears streaming down my face as I pleaded not to be left alone.  As I tried to explain how frightened I was.

When my mom tried to leave, I completely lost it.  I sobbed and screamed and shook and implored.  She tried to reason with me, to tell me that I would be fine.  That it would be okay.  I didn't believe her.  

Eventually, she made the 400 necessary phone calls and found someone who was willing to drop everything and come over.  And I can still feel the absolute relief I felt at that moment- the solace of knowing that I would not be alone.

I don't know how this fear became so entrenched in me, and I don't know how I managed to pass it along to my son.  I hope I can teach him that it's okay to be alone.  That, sometimes, alone is wonderful. 

But until then, I will teach him that I am here.  That he is loved and supported by his family.  That we are watching out for him.  And that even when those elevator doors close on him, we'll be waiting on the other side.

People Are People

It's been a tough couple of months for lots of reasons.  I've talked and whined and written about it plenty.  My husband's incredibly busy with school, we have two small children in the trying throes of toddlerhood, my mom is sick, we're trying to balance everything with no money and little support, I've been in this damn boot, and now... the accident.  And the resulting pain/soreness/stiffness/aching.  It's a lot.  It's too much.

It's been enough that I broke down in tears multiple times in one day a couple weeks ago.  Half because everything I have to do 739 times a day (lift 30lb children, load and unload dishwashers, load and unload washing machines, pick up and/or move 3487 trucks and cars and trains and blocks, lift 30lb children some more) hurt like hell, and half because I was/am exhausted. 

Most days I can handle it.  I can remember what really matters, or at least postpone thinking about the stuff that's hard.  But for a few days a couple of weeks ago, I was out of places to put it.  I didn't have any storage for hard left.  So it poured out of me in the form of tears.  

The kids were concerned initially, but then mostly ignored me.  They're little and they've seen me cry before.  I always explain why I'm crying ("I'm sad," "I'm hurt," "I'm really frustrated") and then usually go hide.  Which is what I did this time.  But then.  Then the most amazing thing happened.

The Big One came back in the room after the initial check-in, dragging a blanket.  He tucked me in.  "So you can feel better, Mommy. I'm sorry you're sad and ouchie.  I love you."  And then he hugged me, oh so gently, and stroked my shoulder, and smiled at me with the most beautifully empathetic look.  

And then I really started crying.

Because here's the thing.  I KNOW my boys are sweet.  I know they are loving, and kind, and wonderful.  But sometimes... sometimes I see them being boys, and I get worried.  I see them wanting to kick and hit and destroy and hurt, and I don't understand it.  And it scares me.  

People roll their eyes at me and give me the ol' "boys will be boys" speech.  And I understand that that's true to a point.  As much as I've tried to resist the idea, boys and girls behave differently.  They just do.  But it still scares me.

And then awful things like the Steubenville rape case and the Boston Marathon bombings happen, and my brain is filled with worries about whether or not I'm doing things right.  Whether or not my boys- my sweet, kind, wonderful boys- could ever be capable of that kind of violence.  And what scares me so completely is, I think the answer is yes.  

Not because I feel that my boys would commit such a hateful, awful crime.  But because I think everyone is capable of terrible things.  People do terrible things every single day.  People with parents, with children, with brothers and sisters, with pets and grandparents and people who love them.  People who have been raised in every possible way, with every possible advantage or disadvantage.  People do horrible things, and I don't know how to stop it.

So.  Instead of sitting around feeling helpless and hopeless, I think about what I can do.  I teach my boys empathy.  I can teach my boys that hurting other people is not okay.  I can teach my boys that power is not the ultimate goal.  I can teach my boys that sex should not used, but should be shared between two people mature enough to care for each other and stop if there are any questions or hesitations.  I can teach my boys to use their words instead of violence.  I can teach my boys to stand up for others- to speak up for anyone who cannot or will not speak up for themselves.  I can teach my boys that sometimes doing what's right is hard and might feel terrible at the time.  I can teach my boys not to be slaves to their bodies, to their hormones, to the media.  I can teach my boys that people- ALL people- deserve respect and kindness.  

And possibly most importantly, I can show my boys what all of this looks like.  I can model respect, kindness, and doing the right thing.  I can show them that they don't have to be what other people tell them to be.  I can show them that fear doesn't have to control them.  I can show them what love and acceptance and respect look like.

And I can think about what I am already doing.  I can think about the look in the Big One's eyes when he came to check on me as I sat on the bathroom floor crying.  I can think about how he chose to help, to make me feel better.  

I can believe that my boys will never, ever allow themselves or their peers to act with such hatred, such disregard, such ignorance as the people around the world who commit and allow violence and hatred against others.