The tiniest pain
I watch you there, short luscious hamhock legs dangling from the doctor’s exam room bed, glow-in-the-dark tennis shoes kicking off the metal table, that sweet butt of yours crinkling the tissue like holy static. Holy, holy child. You are four, and you are divine.
The doctor is trying to hide everything from you, the word “immunizations” buried like a land mine in the sands, as if to trick the clueless foreigner. But I am not the kind of mother that tricks her children, and so I immediately translate for you: “Emma, I’m sorry. It turns out you have to get some shots today. It will hurt but then, very quickly, it won’t anymore.”
Doc tries hard not to look at me, keeps her judgment tight to her chest, distracts herself with the pecking at the keys of her computer. I watch you, hyper-alert for any potential red flag of pain in your rich chocolate eyes.
But your eyes, two dark moons, are avoiding mine. You start to take deep, self-calming breaths just like we’ve practiced, just like a little yogi, so much like the little person I know and yet somehow utterly foreign to me, completely grown. You push your heavy curls back from your face and then bury that face in your palms, take another deep breath and sit up straight, square your shoulders. You repeat this several times, all the while avoiding my penetrating gaze, all the while the doctor types on, all the while I study you for glimpses –just a glimpse!–of the tiny baby I thought I knew.
That baby is not here today. You are a child, a breathy hint of a woman. The doctor slips out and you say to me then, “Mommy, I’m scared” and I nod at you, honor your fear. When the nurses enter I go to you. I hold you and the shots go in and you barely flinch, you won’t give them an inch, you don’t make a sound, not a whimper. Now you stare into my eyes, you match my gaze, and you wait out your opponents. And I’m so proud but suddenly, as surely as I know you will be absolutely fine in this life, I get this awful flash of future. I know that you will suffer greatly for your bravado, for the sensitivity you quash, for your instincts that tell you to hide what you are feeling–and the knowing nearly floors me. I have a deep, primal urge to reach for the blood pressure cuff and pump myself back to here, back to now.
This is only a check-up. A well-child visit. A necessary (if condescending) step. Yes, you can hop on one leg. Yes, you can sort and categorize. Yes, you understand commands, though you’re loathe to follow them. I repeat it to myself, over and over, This is only a check-up and my mind is yanked away to the loved ones I know are suffering today. To those whose circumstances far outweigh any silly shots, those who hurt, those who are watching their own children hurt. What are a couple of shots? Why do I feel so wretched? I am blessed and I am lucky and I am whatever you choose to call it, and yet I can’t help myself.
You wait for the nurses to leave. When they do, you finally turn to me, bury your face in my chest and you crumble. You let it all out, everything you wouldn’t let them see, you wail and keen into me, into your safe place, I am that place, at least, for now.
Later, 2am, I am still feeling broken and so I slip away to your bed. I’m tired beyond rational thought but I follow my own instinct, that instinct that tells me that my body needs to wrap itself around yours, just as we once were, to protect you while I can, while you’ll still let me. To be the shell to your sweet, 4-year-old pink.
I close my eyes now, inhale your scent and try to puzzle out your future. I don’t know how to protect you just enough. I don’t know how to hold back just enough. I don’t know how to interpret these traits in you I didn’t see coming, how to smooth things just so, how to prepare so that you’ll have just the right amount of everything from me. Yes, I know that it’s not my place, that I can’t control it, but it doesn’t stop me, I can’t help it, I can’t relax my jaw, I can’t let go of your sweet, shot-pocked leg, I can’t let go of these last vestiges of baby, I can’t do any of the things I still can’t do with your older sister, I can’t make sense of any solid things like perspective, I only have this, this feeling, this ache, this moment drenched in moonlight, bathed in your sour, four-year-old, once traumatized, already recovered, sleepy, delicious breath.
Kat says:
So beautiful, Maggie. It’s hard being mama, isn’t it?
We have the 4 year old checkup ahead of us still, I really hate it. We also don’t lie to him about shots, and watching him be brave is so, so hard.
November 24th, 2009 at 7:34 pm
Karen says:
I welled right up and wept. I feel so much the same with my own. I am bound, awestruck and humbled by her.
November 24th, 2009 at 7:34 pm
Camille says:
A beautiful piece of writing, as always.
November 24th, 2009 at 7:36 pm
jenn says:
Beautifully written momma!! your little girl is amazingly brave. its so odd to watch my own children go through milestones like this..odd to see them gain independence of their own, to become little people while still being our little babies!
November 24th, 2009 at 7:42 pm
Corinne says:
Whew…. we had my sons 3 year checkup today, and I have to say I felt many of the same things, though he’s still got quite a bit of baby in him. I’m just awestruck by how you put all these thoughts down so eloquently, and by how many times through reading this I sat here shaking my head saying “yes! yes! yes!”
November 24th, 2009 at 7:43 pm
slouchy says:
I absolutely understand.
This was lovely.
November 24th, 2009 at 7:45 pm
pgoodness says:
Oh, my friend, this is beautiful and brought me to tears. Just perfect.
November 24th, 2009 at 8:06 pm
sweetsalty kate says:
Sweet girl, sweet mama.
So beautifully expressed.
November 24th, 2009 at 8:12 pm
Mojo,NC,USA says:
Aww. This takes me (way) back. So many years since four. Or even fourteen. And boys at that. Too tough to cry over a shot, too young and scared not to.
Don’t feel bad about what you don’t know, what you can’t do. After 27 years I still don’t know, still can’t do. And yet, somehow, they make their way and they’re okay.
Lucky for us they’re made of rubber, eh?
November 24th, 2009 at 8:13 pm
warmchocmilk says:
My 5 year old is gving me trouble lately. Can’t wait to meet you at Cupcake 10! Hi I’m Susan…Heather’s neighbor.
November 24th, 2009 at 8:39 pm
anymommy says:
I can’t help but read your stuff twice.
November 24th, 2009 at 8:40 pm
pamela ~ the dayton time says:
How are you able to drive that nail with just one hammer swing?
November 24th, 2009 at 9:01 pm
Fran says:
I love 4 year olds!!! Imprint this memory with indelible ink for ready retrieval in about 10 years.
November 24th, 2009 at 9:02 pm
Kelly says:
That moment during immunizations when you’re staring into your child’s eyes and she’s (or he’s, in my case) staring back into yours is so immense and visceral. I’m never more connected to him than I am when his strength comes directly from my body, even when it’s just my eyes.
November 24th, 2009 at 9:10 pm
Aunt Becky says:
Sometimes doing the right thing is so, so hard.
November 24th, 2009 at 9:32 pm
Elizabeth (@claritychaos) says:
I can’t let go of those last vestiges of babyness either. I won’t, dammit!
Lovely lovliness, Maggie. Thanks for sharing a glimpse of her. (she’s darling!!)
November 24th, 2009 at 9:42 pm
heather says:
Girls are tuff!
November 24th, 2009 at 11:02 pm
Rachael says:
To me, these moments of absolutely beautiful pride and heartache are the definition of being a parent. You captured it so well, I cried, knowing the exact feeling you describe.
November 24th, 2009 at 11:26 pm
tracey says:
Just so lovely… She will treasure this one.
November 25th, 2009 at 1:02 am
A Free Man says:
Beautiful, Maggie.
November 25th, 2009 at 4:13 am
starrlife says:
Ah sweet heartache of parenthood…. a perfect description. She is lovely!
November 25th, 2009 at 4:42 am
cyndi says:
This post brought me back a million years. I saw my sweet, sweet son, the air was filled with his scent and his little oven of a body warmed me to the core. I remember crying for happiness, with an overwhelming sense to protect, with wonderment and breathing and praying that I could do “this” right, do hm right! He’s 25 and I am so proud of the man he
‘s become!
Thanks for visiting my blog. the government baffles me. i just can’t see the payoff in their need to invent controversy and destroy god’s creatures doing so.
November 25th, 2009 at 5:11 am
tysdaddy says:
I’ve done that, the snuggle that makes little sense to those who never take the time to experience it. Even with my oldest son, I find myself kneeling by his bedside as he sleeps, all stretched out and breathing gently, the stress of being a kid – my kid – lingering just under the skin.
Beautiful . . .
November 25th, 2009 at 6:45 am
Quadelle says:
Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
November 25th, 2009 at 7:05 am
justme says:
Lovely. And perfect. And yes, totally. Being a mama is SO hard.
November 25th, 2009 at 7:23 am
Mom says:
My strongest memory of understanding was when you were born and I suddenly realized how much more , how unimaginably much more my momma loved me. Watching you with your girls (and reading you) brings it all back , I wish I could tell you how much. And know how that need never goes away. The long Letting Go.
You are so beautiful to me. I love you.
November 25th, 2009 at 7:38 am
MK says:
My boy does his crying – loudly – and while I wish I could make it stop, I too wonder what this means for his future. He feels OK to show me that emotion? Will he always? Will he look to me, always, to try to heal him? ‘Tis such a dilemma. I want him to be big and strong, but I don’t want him to be big and strong YET.
Gorgeous kid you got there, she takes after her momma
November 25th, 2009 at 8:03 am
deb says:
Nothing could have prepared me for all these mothering moments. The days and nights of it.
How poignant. How bittersweet.
Thanks for writing such a beautiful piece.
November 25th, 2009 at 8:14 am
Carrie @ Who Knew? says:
Beautiful, beautiful post.
November 25th, 2009 at 8:54 am
Titanium says:
Beautiful and heart-wrenching, all at once.
November 25th, 2009 at 9:50 am
Postmarc says:
Dammit, stop making me cry at work.They’re beginning to wonder.
No. Wait.
Don’t stop.
Ever.
November 25th, 2009 at 10:04 am
Jess says:
This is such a beautiful post. I’m going to go kiss my four year old, and hold her tight before she grows up.
November 25th, 2009 at 12:48 pm
arizaphale says:
Yes.
And look at that attitude in the photo. I wonder where she gets it from?
November 26th, 2009 at 4:49 am
David Levine says:
SUCH a beautiful post. And you DO know how. You SO do know how.
November 26th, 2009 at 9:33 pm
All Adither says:
Okay, I’ve heard of you…but just now, finally, visited your blog. And holy criminy, you’re an amazing writer. What a beautiful surprise. I’ll be back.
November 26th, 2009 at 10:12 pm
WhyMommy (Susan) says:
Oh, my heart. You mean they won’t let us wrap ourselves around them forever?
Pardon me. I have to go snuggle my own little ones now. Now.
November 27th, 2009 at 2:28 pm
amber says:
You mean it never gets better? I’ve only been through three rounds of shots with my daughter, and every time, I want to punch them…
Must go check my baby now…
November 27th, 2009 at 8:02 pm
Kelley @ Magnetoboldtoo says:
Oh sweetie, she is so much like Too…
I think I need to go and hug her now. Even though, now at 16, she thinks I am silly and overemotional for wanting to do so so often.
November 27th, 2009 at 8:38 pm
Martin says:
Gorgeous.
November 28th, 2009 at 6:14 am
Jewels says:
beautiful as always
November 28th, 2009 at 11:33 am
Stephanie Hanes says:
Oh, you almost made me cry…I’m trying hard not to think about my sweet baby girl growing up or the waterworks may really start! What a sweet post you can share with your baby girl when she’s all grown up!
November 28th, 2009 at 8:27 pm
karey m. says:
where to avoid sunday morning work and words and edits and deadlines…
here. always here.
i could sit in this one for hours. well done, you.
November 29th, 2009 at 7:28 am
jenn says:
I remember as a child thinking that when I was my mothers age, I’d have it all figured out and there wouldn’t be anymore of this wondering stuff that plauged me.
And what panics me the most right now is my four year old, talking excitedly about how soon she’ll be five.
And each time, my heart creaks and cracks and breaks all over again.
Each time.
I mean these words as comfort. Comfort that you’re not alone.
November 29th, 2009 at 1:05 pm
thatgirlblogs says:
oh crap, Littlest has his 4 year well visit in january. sounds glorious.
wow, she’s a doll baby, isn’t she?
November 30th, 2009 at 1:21 am
bejewell says:
Lovely, both you and your little warrior.
December 1st, 2009 at 8:09 am
Jack says:
This was great. So well done, you could feel the emotion.
December 1st, 2009 at 1:27 pm
moonspun says:
oh my goodness, how did you get into my head like that?
What a poignant and powerful post….
December 2nd, 2009 at 3:30 am
Lee says:
Oh Maggie – I am crying over here. Coming here is sometimes too much for this emotional mama. In the middle of my day, stuff to do, but I am compelled to read your words and again – just awestruck by the beauty and your talent to write some of the things I know I feel but I could never write. Thanks for connecting me with those feelings….what a gift.
And that brave girl of yours…..so delicious. Those photographs are ridiculous beautiful….
Lee
December 3rd, 2009 at 2:37 pm
Erika says:
So, when is your book coming out? This is incredible.
December 4th, 2009 at 1:30 pm
Karen MEG says:
Your writing takes my breath away, Maggie. This was beautiful, almost, but not quite, as beautiful as your little 4 year old
.
The four year checkup with the shots – my little Diva totally sucked it up and laughed at the screaming kids in the waiting room when she had it done. She scares me.
And thanks for checking in on me – and yup, I wasn’t joking when I speak of my mid-40s- although 44 is the new 25 right?
xoxo
December 6th, 2009 at 7:24 am
MDTaz says:
I always feel a bit guilty when I’m overtaken by that compulsion, that feeling like I have to go upstairs and spoon myself around one of them, because I still can, and who knows how long she’ll let me, and christ there’s this precious moment of awe, when she lays there oblivious to me. I wrap myself around that little body and wonder, who will we all become? I just wanted to say that was in your skin, there, throughout the pretty much the entire post, but especially in the last two paragraphs. Thanks for clearing up my contact lenses.
December 8th, 2009 at 4:29 pm