Chances Are

Dear Luke,

You turned four this week. 

I still remember how I cried when the midwives placed you on my chest, cried out of relief that you were alive, outside of my body. No more worries about food, medication, miscarriage, premature birth. No more poking my belly to wake you up, just so your indignant kicks would push away my fears. No more Googling every danger sign (what is the rate of miscarriage, do Braxton-Hicks contractions hurt, what percentage of babies survive at 24 weeks). 

But though my sense of personal responsibility lightened, worry persisted. Was that blanket too close to your face? Were you getting enough to eat? Had I let you cry too long? 

Somehow, despite my mistakes and despite my fears, you survived and grew into a toddler. As you grew bigger, my worry grew smaller. Until you fell out a second-story window, a day before your second birthday. 

It was not my fault. No guilt haunted me over that. But the knowledge that out of four adults in the room, only I knew you were upstairs alone and never once thought about the possibility of you falling from open windows–that did haunt me. 

What other dangers could I not foresee? What other risks was I letting you waltz into? Despite my pregnancy and postpartum anxiety, I’d grown into a common-sense, free-range sort of mom. But the fall made me question all my nonchalance. 

That fence or that slide? You could slip off and break an arm, or a neck. That fountain? You could drown. That coffee table you’re careening around? You could crash into the corner and lose an eye. 

I can no longer toss potential catastrophe out of the picture because the odds are against it. Sure, I still take them into consideration. But the odds were against you falling out of a window, and that happened. Any other one in ten or one in a hundred chance can happen too. 

Now, I have to figure out every day how to let you live as a carefree kid, in spite of knowing what I know. I have to evaluate: Am I being a bad mom, letting you take that risk? Or am I being a bad mom, not letting you take that risk? Will you die, or will you grow up afraid to try? 

I remember, the odds were against you surviving that fall with little injury, and that happened too. But I also remember how my mind and heart refused to believe such a horrible thing had happened, even as we sped to the hospital and you bled and screamed in the back seat. Anything can happen, no matter the odds. Life. Or death.

I wish I knew how to reconcile this tension, every time it rears its sharp and gnawing head. But all I can say is–I’m trying to learn. Sometimes I say, “No! Come back! Let me help you!” Sometimes I bite my lip and watch out the window. Sometimes I do one for a while, then change my mind and do the other. 

I won’t ever get it right, every time. I’m not enough, to evaluate each situation correctly or to protect you from its dangers. I can’t control the odds.

But I don’t want the odds to master me, or you, either. And the only way I can see to kick tension back down, to live free no matter what I choose for you in each situation and no matter what you choose, is to give it all to the one who masters the odds. 

So maybe it’s not enough to say–I’m learning how to evaluate each situation for itself, instead of reacting to past trauma. I also want you to hear this–I’m learning how to trust, to be okay with uncertainty and with botched safety calls. And I want to lead you along on that lesson with me, and also know when to follow your lead, too. 

Odds are, I make more mistakes. Odds are, you take some more falls. But truth is, we don’t have to manage all the odds. 

All my love, no matter what risks you do or don’t take,

Mom