Not My Child

On warm evenings when my boys were in preschool, we would take family walks after dinner.  The boys liked to carry toy swords and shields and wear bright capes with gold fringe, as they ran from bush to tree searching for treasure:  a sparkling white rock, an abandoned piece of rope.  Our neighbors would say, "Good evening, your royal highnesses," and the boys paused briefly to bow, knight the greeter, and introduce him to the princess they had rescued who was riding in the stroller.  Just as quickly, they returned to slash imaginary dragons and defeat villanous foes.  They are vivid, boisterous, full of ideas and wonder.  The moment quivers with life.  But creeping around the edge rolls a cold fog of fear.  How much longer will this last?  Instead of delight, my moment turned sinister.  And for no clear reason, I was scared.

In the newspaper, I noticed a cover story on a little girl called Chloe, who was diagnosed with leukemia before her second birthday.  She was waiting for a blood marrow donor who could save her life.  My own toddler sat next to me smearing her face with applesauce.  Healthy.  Vibrant.  At least I thought so.  But what if I'm wrong?

Every time I hear about another child's tragedy, I feel an icy surge of fear, a naked vulnerability, and guilty sense of relief.  Perhaps if someone else's child is hit by a car, diagnosed with cancer, or kidnapped, there is a lesser chance it will happen to mine.  My husband repeatedly points out my flawed logic, but it is the sad manufactured relief that I cling to.  This time, it wasn't my child.  

For most of us, this kind of thinking remains a merciful worry, but for thousands of parents, it's the reality they live with every day.  This week, Emily Rapp's New York Times article on her son Ronan's Tay Sachs disease reminds us that for her, and for parents of kids like Chloe, their goals for the kids are "simple and terrible:  to help our children live with minimal discomfort and maximum dignity."

Rapp shows us that parenting is not about congratulating ourselves for dodging bullets.  It is not about kids racking up a resume of accomplishments before they enter middle school or reflecting the people we wish we had become.  Parenting is about loving our kids today, equipping them to cope with their dragons, letting them go when we must, and hoping we have the privilege of working ourselves out of a job tomorrow.