We Can't Always Be There for Our Children

And why pretending we can doesn’t help

Two years ago, a few weeks before Mother’s Day, Mateo’s kindergarten teacher told the class that they were going to make Mother’s Day gifts. Mateo asked his kindergarten teacher if he could make three gifts, one for me, his foster mom, one for his former foster mom and one for his birth mom. The gifts were beautiful painted self-portrait silhouettes. I don’t imagine it was easy to get 23 kindergarteners to make them, and I’m sure the last thing his teacher wanted to do was to make two more, but she didn’t say no, and because of that, he came home beaming, practically tripping over himself as he held three packages for his three moms. I loved my gift. Mateo is blowing a kiss, and the kiss turns into three hearts, but I love the story of how it was given even more. It is a reminder that small kindnesses matter.

Without further ado, today’s pocket.

This past week, four boys jumped off a bridge into the Spokane River. There are places people jump from to end their life. This was not one of those places. This was a place right in the heart of the park, close to the fountain and the carousel. People are not supposed to jump in this part of the river, it is not safe, but maybe one kid dared another, and they figured it would probably turn out all right. It often does. I imagine those boys running around, laughing, horse playing, doing all the things middle school boys do. I know a thing or two about middle school boys. Just the week before, I took a bunch of them on a walking tour of this same park. There were divers at the park that day looking for a body in the river. The kids didn’t seem to realize what was going on. They thought the divers were part of the expo activities celebrating our city. Some of the boys yelled at the top of their lungs, and we told them to stop. Some of the boys climbed statues they shouldn’t climb, and we told them to get down. Some of them tried to sit on the side of the bridge, and we told them to think again. A few times, it was the same boy, Steven, so sweet, but absolutely no impulse control. After two hours of chasing after 12-year-olds, I sat on the grass and closed my eyes while the kids played on the playground, they are still children after all. I took it for granted that we would get them all home safe.

Three of the boys who jumped off the bridge made it home safe. I keep thinking about the fourth boy.

He was a student at Yasuhara middle school, a school that feeds into the high school where I teach. He was probably about my son’s age. I told you I know a thing or two about middle school boys. Earlier this year, Seabass played Yas in basketball. Seabass’ middle school is in an affluent neighborhood. They encourage all the kids to play; there are no cuts. Every season, there are sixty or so boys that come out to hoop. The coaches divide the JV boys into four or five teams. They don’t have that problem at Yas. In fact, I’m not sure they even had a JV team, so when Seabass played them in basketball, his team played their Varsity team. Seabass’ team lost, and the Yas boys whooped and hollered. Dan and I sat together watching them celebrate. I teach with their coach, so I knew it was a hard season. This was their first win, and even though we are always rooting for our son, Dan and I couldn’t help but cheer for them. We sat among the boys’ parents and teachers who whooped and hollered along with them and watched them offer post-game hugs and high-fives. It reminded me of when Seabass was little, and we used to create a tunnel after his soccer games, regardless of who won the game. Parents would stand opposite one another and lift their arms and unite hands, cheering loudly as the boys ran through, again and again until we finally realized they would keep going unless we lowered our arms.  

Three of the boys who jumped off the bridge made it home safe. I keep thinking about that fourth boys’ parents.

In my adult memoir class this past week, some of my students shared stories about parents and grandparents. One of my students, a 78-year-old man, who carries his pencils in a mason jar and always walks to class, asked, “Can a parent always be there for their children?” I smiled at him and joked that he was asking philosophical questions that could keep us there all evening. We were in the middle of giving feedback to another student, and I was trying to get us back on track, but one student in the class, simply said, “No,” and another student, a woman who is my friend, and a middle school teacher at Yasuhara, and one of the best moms I know, said, “I know, I certainly can’t.” I realized that they were correct, that question wasn’t going to keep us there all night because it had a certain answer. We can’t always be there for our children, no matter how desperately we wish that we could.

We have to let them out of the tunnel.

Yet, on Facebook this week, someone asked the question in response to the tragic death of this middle schooler, “Where were the parents?” I am so confused and enraged by this question. As a mom of a thirteen-year-old, are there people that really think it would be appropriate for me to be attached to him all the time? Am I supposed to follow him around all day when he plays basketball or does parkour in the park? Are they suggesting that if I don’t do that, it’s my fault if something bad happens to him? A child dying is a cruel and awful thing. Does it really make it more palatable to have someone to blame?

I suppose maybe for some, it does, that the people asking that question need to believe that we live in a just world where right actions lead to right results, and random, awful, fucked-up things don’t happen every day. I get it. I would like to live in that world too, a world where all four boys who jumped off that bridge made it home safe to their parents, a world where all the children in Gaza made it home to their parents too, but to pretend that such a world exists is to cause even more pain to the parents and people whose hearts are breaking because of the world we actually live in.  

Amy Kraus Rosenthal tells a story in Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life tells a story of visiting a shipwreck in Greece with her children. They are walking across a gangway, about fifteen feet above the ground, and the gangway has a few boards missing, just about a foot wide, easy to jump across. “I waited for Miles to go—he was right in front of me, his shirtless back against my tummy. Suddenly he spotted a little Greek girl he had played with at the local taverna a couple nights before…I remember feeling rather impatient because I just wanted to get on with it, to cross over this hole. Yes, I see the girl, now on with it. And with that, Miles was gone. He slipped right through…Days later Miles and I were still talking about the event. We’d look at each other and know what the other was thinking. I’m thinking about it. Me, too. In fact, I couldn’t stop looking at him. I was enamored with him. My Miles, you’re here. Look at you. I’m so happy you’re here. We got so very, very lucky. You’re here…I saw my child slip away from me. That’s what he did. He literally just—there one minute, not there the next—slipped away. I saw, with front-row-seat clarity, just how quickly, randomly, and mercilessly your child can be taken away…Miles slipped away. Then he came back. But now I know, in the saddest, most awful place my heart can imagine, that sometimes when the light goes out, it’s just out.”

On this Mother’s Day, I’m going to close out with a poem I shared in November. I wrote it after reading a story from an Israeli mother who was begging her sons’ captors to keep him safe. I wrote briefly about the Parents Council Families Forum, which consists of hundreds of Israeli and Palestinian families who are uniting around their loss and their desire for peace and an end to violence. You can find that post here.

Thank you for reading and being a part of this beautiful community.

Waiting

Tonight, you are not home when I expect you

and for a brief moment, I fall into the dark

imagining a world without your humming

I sit in the stillness, waiting

while everything that seemed important falls to the floor

and all that is left is ache

to feel the cool of your skin

to run my fingers through your thick hair

to hear you sing “Come and Get Your Love,” over and over again

made-up lyrics in the mix

I want it all

Minutes later, you text to say that you are almost home

I pull myself up into the light

I wait until I hear the familiar click of the lock

the thud of your feet as you jump up the stairs

I roll over and return to sleep

In the morning, I rise and find you, sound asleep

I rustle my hands through your hair

and press my cheek to yours

For a brief moment the sky is pink, you will sleep through it

I will bear witness

I light a candle

Because you came home to me

I light a candle

For the mothers who are still waiting