The Things I Carry

Not too long ago, the twins and I were at the beach, which is where we've been spending much of our free time lately. I am desperate to wring every little bit of sun-shiny enjoyment I can out of the last weeks of summer, and the twins are 100% on board.

On the day in question, we were far back from the shore itself, sitting in a shady spot to dig in the sand and build fantastic structures. The sunny beach was burning hot, not really a good place to sit and play. Sophie, however, was bored with the shady sand and wanted to venture forth to the far-away water line and fill up her bucket with a bit of Lake Michigan.

When we're at the beach, I make sure everyone stays together. Either we all go to the water together or we all stay in our shady spot together. It's a big beach, and little girls don't get to venture forth on their own. So Sophie begged to go to the water, and Evie refused to abandon the shady sand pile. Frankly, I was with Evie on that one -- the sand was like molten lava on our bare feet. So I said, "No, Sophie, we're all going to stay here in the shade."

And then she said something she's never said before, but that I know I'm going to hear more and more as the girls get older: "Mom, can I go by myself?"

I could literally feel a stab of I-don't-know-what shoot through me. Independence? What is this? She actually wants me to let her wander off by herself?

I know I'm crazy overprotective of these kids. If I could, I'd carry them around always, do everything for them and shelter them from the dangerous world. I often find myself thinking back to my all-too-brief pregnancy, back when the girls really were with me all the time, and I could always keep them safe.

And that's when I start lying to myself. I love the idea of an idyllic pregnancy in which everything is happy, and mother and child(ren) are safe and content. But in my case, that's more fairy tale than fond remembrance.

I had a rough pregnancy, all six months of it. Never when I was pregnant did I reflect with bliss on the fact that I was protecting the girls, that they were always with me and I knew they were always safe. During the first trimester, I just didn't think of them in those terms. And later on, ultrasounds showed us that the girls weren't really as cozy and safe as they should have been (what with the broken bones in utero and the fact that my body was trying to reject them months before it should have). I was terrified for them during those weeks of hospital bedrest. While I knew that the earlier they were born, the harder their struggles would be, I also couldn't help but think that I wasn't doing them any good. They were crammed in my too-small, too-weak body, breaking bones and losing fluids. I thought they'd be better off on the outside, where they didn't have to rely on me for their well-being. Neonatologists were far better qualified to take care of them.

I'm sure this explains why I'm so obsessed with keeping them safe now -- at a time when it should have been easy for me to protect them, I couldn't get the job done. (How hard is it to just keep them in my belly? Billions of pregnant women do it!)

So my task is two-fold: 1) Recognize that I cannot keep them safe at all times, no matter how hard I try. 2) Recognize that trying to shelter them from every adversity is bad for their mental health -- and mine.

Back on the beach, I looked at proud, independent, anxious Sophie, who so longed to traverse the sand to the water's edge, and I thought, She'll be fine. "Go ahead, Sophie."

She got about five feet away before the scalding sand sent her running back. "It's too hot, " she said, and settled in at the shady sand pile, content.