The WHATIFs Grow Up

The whatifs  have a way of sneaking up on us, edging their way in through cracks in the veneer.

We ward them off with a smile on our face; with sleeping pills; with best-laid plans.

Some of us, vulnerable to anxiety's Machiavellian maneuvers, have learned to ignore the whatifs, or rather deny them. We stay busy to hide from them. We run. We play. Or we use exhaustion as a means of defense (they can't attack while we sleep).

Still, the whatifs  are patient - content to lie in wait, satisfied knowing they soon will have the chance to stretch their tentacles, regenerate and multiply.

A movie theater shooting. A marathon bombing. A child abused by a teacher. An autistic girl found face-down in a lake. A friend diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer.

Each of these tears down our defenses and allows the whatifs to burrow in...stronger, scarier, realer.

Shel Silverstein/Where The Sidewalk Ends

The night before a school camping trip, my son asks, "Whatif  I sleepwalk into the cave and get eaten by a bear or lost forever?" What an outlandish whatif,  I think, instantly realizing that MY whatifs once were outlandish, too. Are they still?

It's much harder to combat whatifs when they've become so real.

The whatifs  no longer are about my own mortality or suffering. They dance around the people I love. Whatif  something endangers them? Or prevents me from protecting them? How can I shield my nonverbal daughter from a predatory world? Whatif  my son doesn't make it to the hospital in time when his shunt fails? Whatif  I abandon them, or rather, WHEN I abandon them in death? What will happen then?

I Dropped Out Of Baby Gym. Twice.

The comfortably padded walls, blinding primary colors and off-putting, patchwork-clown puppet at HappyBabyGym had lured me in again. This time, I assured myself, I'd claim my rightful share of HappyBabyGym moments.

See, as a new mother, you’ve miraculously attained a baby; somehow managed to feed, clothe, burp, change it; and maybe gone outside for a stroll. Still, you’re tired, lonely and – let’s be honest – bored. Baby’s not exactly Dorothy Parker. You need to pack that intimidating diaper bag and escape the house. So, with my second baby in tow, I once again found myself at HappyBabyGym.

I was pleased that, four years later, the routine and songs remained exactly the same. I dutifully cajoled my daughter to clap, stomp and pop bubbles on cue, silently begging her to conform with me.

The Dreaded Checklist

The same moms chattered enthusiastically, although they had little in common aside from parenting a child of similar age. They didn't yet know that even that bond was weak, held together only by a checklist of milestones.

My son had been born with a condition that could result in physical and/or cognitive challenges. We were told it would not be possible until he was older to assess the severity, and we had to "wait and see." I can report now that he would, indeed, grow into his "best-case scenario" and his challenges are, relatively, mild. However, each week at  HappyBabyGym, we'd only know that he had missed yet another milestone on the list.

His delays were amplified, scrutinized and assessed competitively to a point that, at circle time, I'm pretty sure I exaggerated his mastery of the sippy cup and other weekly accomplishments. Sure, the mothers would be sympathetic, at times making a big deal of placing little Johnny next to my son to roll a ball together, but when numbers were exchanged, nobody asked for mine. After I strategically lunged for the only instrument my child could grasp during the baby band jam, we'd partner up with the group’s lone nanny and her charge.

No, I was not joyous and self-satisfied, like the moms on the brochure. Nor did my son giggle gleefully under the colorful parachute. He was the one screaming in terror. We often cried in unison as we drove home.

So when I returned years later with my daughter, I felt entitled to a picture-perfect HappyBabyGym experience. I deserved this.

Alas, just because she could perform their tricks did not mean she wanted to. Instead, like her older brother, she cried. Or ran in circles. Or sniffed the other kids’ hair. So we put our shoes back on, and I walked out of HappyBabyGym for good.

Soon after, we found solace, companionship and comfort among moms and children elsewhere: in waiting rooms and doctor’s offices, where she aced another checklist: the signs of autism.


This post is part of the Yeah Write Summer Writer's Series. I had my choice of three writing prompts and chose: "Describe a time you felt alone." I am proud to be part of this talented, supportive writing community.

Mommy on the Run

I am super-excited to participate in my first Yeah Write. If you like my post, you are more than welcome to follow the "Yeah Write 55" button to the voting page, scroll down, and click on that little yellow star thingy below My Whac-A-Mole Life. Voting is now open closed. Wow - I got 6th place out of 50. Just wow! You also should check out the other Yeah Write entries. It's an honor to be among them.

My happy place is shamefully cliche, but perhaps simply because it's so universally divine. Resting peacefully on a comfy beach chair...white sand...waves crashing...breezy sunshine...Oprah-blessed book in one hand; fruity, umbrella-topped cocktail in the other. My family's with me, building sandcastles, riding the waves and playing backgammon.

The best part: we're contentedly "still." Not still in the physical sense, but more of a relaxing, peaceful stillness, where our minds are able to join our bodies on this vacation.

BRRRRRRING (that's the sound of a one-button, analog alarm clock - circa 1986 - jolting me awake)! This fantasy is as unrealistic as time travel. Or you reaching me on a land line. You see, I'm Mommy on the Run. And Mommy on the Run is never still.

In the scene above, mine's the family disturbing the peace. A child is throwing sand, or screaming in terror, or wandering haphazardly, knocking over your sunblock and water bottle without even realizing it. Someone is yelling. Someone is apologizing to a stranger. All adults are counting down the minutes until this "vacation" is over.

If my kids were toddlers, beach-goers would smile knowingly and say nostalgically, "enjoy it. They grow up so fast." However, these kids are long past the terrible/adorable twos, and (while they still are exceptionally cute), universal sentiment is more like, "I hope they're not staying on our floor."

Mommy on the Run doesn't care. She's more concerned with making sure nobody drowns, drinks from a moldy, half-buried Mountain Dew can, or swipes a shovel from your baby. She's got the reflexes, speed and alertness of an Olympic athlete (though sadly not the body to match). You see, long after most kids are Ferber-ized allowing their parents to sleep again, she's still more exhausted than you can possibly comprehend, but her kids keep growing bigger, stronger and faster. So she focuses every working neuron on real-time, all-the-time crisis prevention and management.

At gatherings, while others' children are able to play unsupervised in the basement, Mommy on the Run is the sole adult chasing ping-pong balls. She hears that drop-off parties are a great time to run errands. Not for her. She lingers, in strangers' homes, awkwardly offering to hand out forks because "drop-off" is not an option. At the pool, while most moms are gabbing and sunning with gal pals, Mommy on the Run is begrudgingly in the water or, if she's lucky, running up and down the poolside in a sarong shouting with great hope: "Great job keeping your bathing suit on!"

At a holiday lunch, Mommy on the Run is even more vigilant. Her "crazy eyes" are (probably) not medically induced, but a sign that she's scanning the environment for potential destruction, meltdowns and escapes. She genuinely might want to talk to you, but it's likely she'll disappear mid-sentence, having to save a family heirloom from crashing to the ground or a guest's modesty from her daughter's compulsion to have everything buttoned just so.

Mommy on the Run is prone to sudden, unexpected outbursts, ranging from random warnings to guests ("Hold on to that water cup!" "Guard your salad!") to leaping to her feet to block an exit. Inevitably, you'll think she's nuts when she screams across two rooms, "Don't even think about it!" (You see, she and her child simultaneously spotted someone nearby with an irresistibly, rip-offable bandage.) Another parent - probably the PTA president - will say with a slightly judgmental  tone: "It's okay. She hasn't even done anything wrong." Oh, but she will. She will.

On a Saturday afternoon "relaxing" at home, Mommy on the Run is always at the ready, playing autism whac-a-mole with expertise, but failing to complete one load of dishes (tellingly, this is another fantasy of hers). The minute-after-minute demands of her resident Tasmanian Devil are all-consuming ... and more important.

Mommy on the Run is a master of observation, mind-reading and focus - but only when it comes to her child. As an adult conversationalist or party guest, she sucks. She will not and can not be still.

Once upon a time, I was a skilled networker, able to discuss Wall Street Journal insights with Fortune 500 CEOs. These days, I'm Mommy on the Run, leaving you with no other choice - as you must have figured out based on my diminished number of party invitations - but to clear a path and guard your china.

***By the way, if this post seems scattered or disjointed, please be aware that I popped up 13 14 times while writing it to avert disaster. Actually, consider this a disclaimer for this entire blog site. Thank you in advance.