I used to be worried about black holes, Bee says as she slices a hard-boiled egg on the kitchen counter, adds pepper.
Well, she smiles… I still kind of am.
And there it is, the thing I fully and finally have in common with my kid, this girl who is a mystery, who is equal parts the age she is and all of the ages she’s been, 5 years with me and a million without.
Me too, lady, is what I say, and what I think is that I am worried every day.
I am worried I’ll lose something trivial, like this morning when the pacifier fell somewhere in the grocery and I desperately scanned the store for a full five minutes, the toddler offering tired shrieks in the pasta aisle, in the toilet paper aisle, in the deli section. When we found it, by the carts, after his shrieks had diminished to hiccups, I worried I didn’t have the wet wipes with me.
I am worried that I’ll lose the important things, too. Her trust, her faith. His sense of security, his lightness. I am worried that the harsh words I lobbed yesterday squelched the hundreds of kind ones I’ve offered for years.
There is a daily influx of the vainglorious worries, too, in which I am worried the toddler eats too much salami, that we don’t get enough fresh air, that I bend too much to his whims, that I don’t bend nearly enough to her whimsy. I worry I’m not doing enough science projects with her, not reading enough to him. If there’s an emergency, does she know our address? Did I order enough outlet covers? Is the trampoline safe? Are we?
I worry for the inevitable and I worry over the already-happened. I worry that when they’re 25 and 29 they won’t come home for Christmas – or worse, that they will but won’t want to.
I worry over keeping them too close, holding them too tight. I worry, of course, over letting them go.
And while I no longer worry about black holes, I do worry on cloudier days that I – the whole I – might always be a shadow to them, fully unknowable, entirely a stranger. Who is my mother?, they will wonder at the woman chopping strawberries in the kitchen, and I worry I will not know, either.
There is little antidote once the fears rush in. But when you’re in the presence of a wise 5-year-old, you give her toast with her egg and you ask her what she does when she starts to get scared about black holes, and she will smash bits of avocado with a fork as she tells you this:
There’s not really anything I do. I just feel it and go play.
Monday offered us an afternoon at the beach. The day was windy and overcast, but we took it anyway. Sand in the car seats, seagulls stealing our sandwiches. Shell-hunting, of course, and when Bee found her first sand dollar and it broke in the plastic bucket, we both nearly cried.
Still, I fed the meter twice, not wanting it all to end.
Later that night, a red moon. Scout and I crept out of bed quietly to take a peek, but the red looked more peach to us both. Either way, it was a sight worth seeing. It looked closer, somehow, and rounder, right there on our own balcony. Big and muddied.
I don’t know what to do about the black holes and my own small worries, but when I think of yesterday’s tide and last night’s sky, I think of how gravity works. Of how the moon can pull an entire ocean, can make it dance in perfect rhythm, in perfect time, in perfect harmony with itself and the sea and the land and us all.
And I think of how sand dollars are formed and broken, of how tides rise and fall. Of how we drive twenty minutes in the hot sun, search fifteen minutes for a parking spot, drop a small fortune into the parking meter, stub our toe on the concrete as we drag the cooler a half mile or so – and we do it even still, over and over, just to bear witness to it all, to testify to the beauty, to prove that we are here amidst the corporal.
To make ourselves known to each other – ourselves and every fear within us.
To feel it and go play.