One of Those Parents

Before I began the perilous journey through motherhood, I often looked around and judged how other people reacted to their role as parents. I quickly defined a group known simply as those parents. Now please understand, those parents always had to be said with a quiet sneer in your voice, and indicated the most vile type of parent that ever existed. I decided just as quickly, that under no circumstances, would I ever be a part of this group. These were the parents that called every ten minutes when they had to leave their child for any reason, just to be sure that they were okay. I, in my all important role of babysitter, often found myself wanting very badly to tell them that while their child was fine, they were being extremely annoying and could they please just get a grip.

My reasoning for not saying it then was simple, I needed the money I was being paid to baby-sit. Today my reasoning for being glad I never said those words is more complex, his name is Dalton and he is 7 years old. The day this child came into our world was probably the most frightening day of my life. I had heard so many stories of how wonderful an experience it was to become a mother. However, on the day Dalton arrived, the only emotion I can remember was fear. Fear of what was happening to me, fear for him, fear for what we would do once he was actually here. Just fear. Then when my husband held him so that I could see him in the delivery room, even through the joy I could feel my fear compounding. This was a little person, and his very survival was dependant on the fact that I take care of him. He was dependant on the fact that I protect him from all of the bad in the world, and that I be there to insure that he came through as undamaged as possible. It was at that moment that my destiny was set; I would be one of those parents.

We survived the next few weeks together with him adjusting to the new world that he had been thrust into, while I adjusted to sleeping in three hour increments and having someone completely dependant on me. I tried so hard to prepare for the next big change coming in our lives, my returning to work.

I can vividly remember my first day back at work after he was born. He was so tiny, so defenseless, and I had entrusted his care to one of the few people I knew would die before they would see anything happen to him, my mother-in-law. However, even knowing that she would gladly impale herself upon the knife of any would be attacker to save my child did nothing to calm my fears as I got into my car that morning. I cried. I chided myself for worrying, and then I cried some more.

As I pulled into the parking lot at work, I kept repeating to myself, "You will not call. You will not call." Yet, inevitably, as one hand turned the ignition in my car off, the other hand reached for my cell phone. I felt so guilty as I slowly entered her number, but I entered it anyways. Like a twig caught up in an avalanche I was being propelled forward by a force much more powerful myself. One ring, maybe I should just hang up. Two rings, well I can't hang up now. Three rings, where is she? Four rings, what is taking so long? Five rings, Oh my God! What is wrong! As the keys slid back into the ignition, she picked up the phone on the sixth ring.

"Nana, is the baby okay?" I asked, breathless from my short-lived heart attack of a few minutes earlier.

"He is fine honey. We both just dozed back off after you left." She seemed completely oblivious to the fact, that we had just avoided a full-blown panic attack on my part.

"Okay, Nana" I say as I head across the parking lot to the front door of my building. "I will see you this afternoon," I tell her with every intention of not calling again until I arrived home that night. That good intention lasted all of thirty minutes before the phone was in my hand again. I repeated the process of shame and dread as I dialed her number about twenty times that day. Yet, strangely enough her assurances that my baby was fine did nothing to quiet the fear nestled deep in my stomach. Every instant that I was not concentrating solely on work was spent with imaginings of what could possibly be going wrong with my baby at that very moment.

The rest of that week, I spent crying all the way to work, worrying all day at work, and rushing home to hold my sleeping infant. Thankfully, as days turned to weeks and weeks to years my fears have subsided some. However, I will probably always be one of those parents deep down. There will always be that twinge of fear when I hear about an approaching storm or a school bus involved in an accident. I guess that is the fate of all parents, and honestly if you could only see our children you would understand why. Oh, but wait a minute, you may be a babysitter too, silently cursing all of us who call to much, and can't trust anyone with our precious child. Well, if you are I only have one piece of advice for you from one babysitter to another, bite your tongue, because one of these days you too will see.