You Can't Die
What a sweet afternoon.
We collect different-shaped leaves and pine cones and of course, acorns. Tate spreads our haul across the kitchen table. We even have time before dinner to make homemade juice popsicles, which she was planning on our way home after combing the alleys of our neighborhood in the sunshine.
When it’s time to brush teeth, Tate races around, to make it clear she’d rather be anywhere but the bathroom. I play along for a while and then let her know it’s time. I need her feet to land below the sink. She parks them there, with two honking noises, telling me that’s what her ‘feet cars’ do every time they safely arrive anywhere.
I brush for her tonight, tired, ancy to get to our reading. Seems I’m either putting the toothbrush too far down her throat by accident and making her gag or tickling her gums so much she wiggles way in delight. But, tonight, as imperfect as it is, I just want to do it and get it done.
Unknowingly a big sigh escapes once we’re finally curled up with our chapter book. Tate imitates me with a sigh bigger than her, slows me some - and brings me to the here and now. This favorite place of mine - arm around Tate in her bed at night. Snuggled up as one.
We read a chapter, stopping to chime in on the character’s plight, as we always do.
I tuck Tate in with a push-down and lots and lots of I love yous. And off I go.
When I pass her room a half hour later, to my surprise, I hear her say (as if she’s been with me since I left), in a monotone voice “You cannot die before me, Mama.”
Talk about unprepared.
I thought she was sound asleep. I wasn’t even tiptoeing. My head was solely on going back to the kitchen one last time for a glass of water to have by my bed and to start the dishwasher. All business.
Part of me wants to pretend I didn’t hear because this is big. And scary. And deserves time and attention. I’m not even sure if I can handle the emotion of this worry with how exhausted I am. I’m not even positive I heard it right.
The rest of me though knows nothing else matters, there’s nothing else to do but attend to my precious girl’s little giant heart.
I lean on the frame of her doorway and whisper, “What did you say, my love?”
“You CAN’T die before me, Mama. You just can’t. I won’t know how to boil an egg. And I can’t push myself down at night. And, what will I do when I need to talk to you? Who will I collect nature with? I know you’re supposed to because you’re older than me but you just can’t. I can’t live with you.”
For a mother so focused on empowering her daughter, day in and day out, with knowing all she is capable of, I wonder if I should have brushed her teeth for her tonight. How could she feel so reliant?
Then, I consciously stop my natural response - my programming - which is beating myself up.
This is not something I could have done better. It’s not a problem to be solved. It’s not even close.
This is a moment of sadness, of epiphany, of togetherness, of separateness, of letting go, maturity, courage and connection.
I go to her. Drop to my knees and hold both her hands. I reflect back to her with my own eyes - all that love, with a soft compassionate smile.
Tears come and I Iay my head on her chest. She hugs it.
I start by telling myself she brought this up because she’s ready and I will meet her right where she is.
I start by telling her she is the love of my life …
