A Mother's Night

He is running away from me, shrieking with laughter. I chase him, but that only makes him run faster and squeal louder. But I have to chase him you see, for he is running towards the road. It is not a very busy road, but cars fly by on our country road none-the-less. I am not as fast as I used to be--extra pounds and creakier joints, and I am even more encumbered by the baby on my hip. He can run normally now, loves to run, making up for the lost days spent in a crib at the hospital. But I have to catch him--I holler to tell him to stop. He either can't hear me, or he ignores me and keeps running. I can tell that the road is not his goal, just in the line of his running tangent. As I get near the road, he is barely within arms reach and I catch him by his arm just as a car whizzes by. Heart pounding, breathing heavily I just stand -- weak kneed. What if I hadn't caught him? What if I hadn't even noticed he was running towards the road? What if I had tripped and fallen while carrying the baby? What if?

I turn him away from the road and head back to the house. I don't even scold him, I should, but I am too exhausted. Lost in my "what if's" I lose track of where he has gone. Where is he? My eyes scan the surrounding area--bushes, tall grass, murky water. I scream, "Where are you?" No answer. A slight movement in the water--it must be him. I don't know how or when--I just know that he is in the water. Where do I put the baby? There is no place safe. I can't have her near the water while I try to find him. But I have no choice, I must get to him. I put her down and pray she does not somehow manage to get to the murky water's edge.

One hand grasping a small overhanging branch I plunge head and shoulders into the water. It is not really deep, but deep enough to hide a toddler. Miraculously I feel his little body, grab an arm, and pull him from the muddy water. I haul him to the bank near where I left the baby and lay him down. She is still there safe and sound. Turning him on his side I sweep his mouth with my fingers, check for a pulse, and begin CPR. I have never done this before but on a dummy --how do I know if I'm doing it right? After only a few sets of breathing and compressions, he vomits and starts to breath on his own.

I am scared and crying -- why is this happening? I roll over and open my eyes. It is Mother's Day. Morning sunlight streams in the window. Winona smiles at me and giggles. Groggily I sit up breathe a prayer of thanks that it was only a dream. But lately, this is what my dreams are made of -- nothing light and fluffy, no lovey dovey rainbow dreams for me. I know my dreams often follow the current of my deepest emotions and I guess my emotions have been running on the dark and murky side. I know why. My safe little cocoon was shattered when Walter was burned. My "it only happens to other people" has changed to "it HAS happened to me -- please let this be the only thing". I pray daily to be allowed to live out the rest of my life as so many people have -- with happy and healthy children -- and to not have to experience again the pain of watching my child suffer. I know it is selfish--I know. But please, just this one thing? (I selfishly ignore that there are many other people whose children are very ill or even dead. And what super-hero complex makes it so that I rescue him every time?)

I hear my husband talking to the boys downstairs. I know they are scurrying about trying to make this day special for me--signing cards, wrapping small gifts, making strawberry shortcake. I thank God for the wonderful family He has given me. Scooping Winona up in my arms we head downstairs, out of the dark and murky into the light and love of Mother's Day.