Perspective.

Something happened this week, something awful and terrible and tragic. And it rocked me to my core.

A baby died at our daycare.

The details are slightly more complicated than that. The baby had pre-existing medical conditions and there’s nothing the daycare should have done differently. It probably would have happened at home. He stopped breathing during his nap at daycare, was rushed to the hospital and paramedics were able to restart his breathing in the ambulance. In the end though, he didn’t make it. I got a call on my office phone from my husband. My panicked first words were “What’s wrong?” His first words were “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.” He continued to tell me that our kids were okay, but told me what had happened, that the ambulance was on the way, and that he was on the way to pick up our kids. I struggled to pull myself together, to get in my car and drive a sensible speed, the whole way praying and praying for this little one and wishing I worked closer to home.

It was his very first day of daycare, his mother’s first day back at work, his very first nap. This sweet baby boy was dropped off with my children two days ago. He and my daughter are weeks apart. He had come up in conversation several times, we talked about how fun it would be for Avery to have this little friend, how Carter would get to know him. Now he’s gone. As a mother, and as a working mother, I cannot even imagine the pain and suffering that family is going through now. It seems fitting that the weather has been gloomy and raining the last few days here.

What can you do? How can you keep your children safe and ensure that nothing bad ever happens to them?

Sometimes, nothing. The crushing weight of that helplessness is terrifying, infuriating, and exasperating. As a parent, as a human being, you want to do everything. I want to go overboard, cause people to label me as the crazy over-protective mother, purchase little bubbles for each of my children, and never ever leave them again.

I can’t stop paying the mortgage and start dumpster diving for food. I have to go to work. I have to entrust them to “the village” we have carefully and thoughtfully assembled. Even if I didn’t, there are no guarantees. At the end of the day, I do what I can. I take reasonable precautions and then maybe just a little more. I fight the guilt. I fight the urge to throw all caution and reason to the wind and declare that I’m never leaving my babies ever again. I fight the crushing fear. I don’t let myself be (permanently) crippled by anxiety. A few times, I’ve had to remind myself to keep breathing. Sometimes, especially this week, I have to hold back the tears and keeping it together in front of Carter or in a meeting. I ask God to watch over them and keep them safe. I snuggle each one of my little blessings and thank the Lord for these precious gifts, and praise him that they are healthy, even if only for this moment.