misplaced mama

“Mama? I just had scary thoughts.”

I reach down and turn the knob, lowering the song of one scratchy, sweet- n- low, cream infused, heroin-inspired voice of Billie Holiday down to a bluesy whisper, dancing with the hum of the car. I dangerously turn around to glance in her eyes while driving the car and grab her hand.

“Tell me; please tell me about your scary thoughts.” I squeeze her hand three times.  Our “passed down from generations” code for: I. Love. You.

“I fell into the water and you tried to get me but you couldn’t so the shark ate me.”

Damn her father and his pseudo-Jack Sparrow sailing tales of his life at age 10 with his freakishly brave but old gray-pony tailed parents and their 30 foot cruiser filled with stick spears and Tupperware containing 3 years worth of dry goods.  His not-so-tall tales include but are not limited to encounters with persistant barracudas and underwater hide-n-seek-dances with Moray eels.  Vivid action scenes of grandpa fighting off an 8-foot bullhead shark, stabbing the fucker between the eyes over and over again with a spear tip while it encircled him with blood and flesh cravings.  Episodes of terrifying storms where sailing into the center was the only way to survive. Stories about island witch doctors that healed with rattling cans of sharks teeth and shots of rum and how eating raw conch straight from the shell was sweet ecstacy. She has heard these tales, and many more, since her ears could hear, filling her once blank canvas with coral reef colors. These are the stories that have put her to sleep when nothing else could.  These are the stories for lazy hammock days in the springtime.  These are the fantastical visions animated in techni-colors, no doubt, in my child’s mind.  She can geekishly identify most sea species, from frisky little critters who will want to play with you during underwater run-ins, to the ones who will want to chomp you down to bloody bits for dinner. 

Think MB, think before you speak.  My mother infuriated me my whole life by never validating my childhood fears.  When I would come downstairs crying after scary thought or dreams, I’d hear: “Hunny, please.  There is nothing to be scared of!”

Liar. There is plenty to be scared of.  For instance, sharks.  Armed prowlers.  Becoming a mother.  Phone collectors.  Long sharp needles.  Salmonella poisoning. Tsunamis.

“I won‘t let you fall in the water, so the shark could never eat you.  I’d always catch you before you fell as long as I was with you.  Daddy, too.”

“It still scary, mama.”  She is quiet and serious.

“Ok then.  Let’s say this: It’s ok to be scared, but I can let it go because I am safe and my mama and dada and sister are with me.

Her littlest pea of a voice touches the back of my head as I drive the ramp onto the freeway, cars whiz by us video came style in slurs of red and yellow stripes.

“It’s ok to be scared.  It’s ok to be scared but I’m gonna let it go cause I’m safe with mama, dada and sula. It’s ok to be scared, but I’m gonna let it go….

She repeats, like the mantras she is so familiar with, a few more times and then I glance in the mirror to see her eyelids cover her eyes; down once, open, down twice, open.  And then finally the curtain closes and her breathing begins to circulate with the hum of the car and the quiet bluesy whines from Billie Holiday.  Her head hangs low and her chin bops up and down against her chest.  Damn carseat with no neck support.  I reach back again, quite dangerously while manning the wheel, and fix her so she is up right. 

I turn the knob up high and let that drowsy druggy voice fill the car nice and loud, to drown out the suddenly invasive fears that seemed to charge into my head just that moment.

“It’s okay to be scared.  My babies are safe.  It’s okay to be scared.  Moving my life again will be fun as always.  It’s okay to be scared.  This world will rise above the war and the greed.  It’s okay to be scared.  I can be this mother.”