Fears

Fears are raw emotion-- the dark side of honesty that most people shield and hide until forced to expose their pale faces to the public. Some people strut their fears, screaming loudly when they see a spider, and nearly fainting into a crowd of friends if they get too close to the edge of a tall platform (because it's popular to be afraid of spiders, snakes, or heights). Some people hide from their fears, preferring instead to ignore their existence. Others take great lengths to overcome their fears, such as a dramatic leap from a plane, or spending the night in a cave. And still others (and I fall into this category) are still discovering their fears because they have allowed them to be hidden so well that identifying them takes work. I have recently discovered such a fear of mine.

When I was little, I had over fifty baby dolls. I remember the small playroom lined with dolls in their cradles or lined up side by side around the perimeter. I named them all Emily, and took care of them daily, rocking them to sleep and feeding them from bottles that really seemed to empty. I would sleep with my "babies" and take them on walks; talk to them and sing to them. "What a great mommy you are going to be!" everyone said. I would beam-- that is what I wanted to be more than anything.
As I grew I began babysitting, loving and playing with other people's children. I knew that being a mom was meant for me. Then the fear began to slip into my dream, and I let it hide because I didn't want to discover it, not yet. I didn't want to be inadequate, not good enough to fulfill my dream. I began to hear the doubts when I started nannying. "You don't know how to be a mom," they said. "You don't know how to love like a mom."

"No!" I'd answer back, "I will when I have my own children!" But I still feared because I couldn't remember how to be loved from a mother. I watched other moms with their babies, but my mom and I had a different relationship. I have two moms, one in heaven and one I have had since I was four. My second mom is fabulous, and has taken great care of me and my siblings, but there is a difference that can only be sensed when she hugs the children she bore-- a love that is tangible and connecting. I remember that I felt that a long time ago, but I don't know how to love like that. I don't know how to care so deeply about a child that even when they are being punished they feel my love. I don't know how to hold a child and have love like steam fill my insides. I don't know how, I don't remember, but somehow I do. I am being taught as I hold my baby in my arms and he looks up at me adoringly. As he coos, laughs, and grips me tight, I feel like he is patiently, lovingly teaching me how. I feel like he knows how to love better than I, but I am learning. Who knew that I could learn to overcome my fear from a child? Me, a mom, a protector and teacher-- am being taught by an infant, led along until I feel myself doing it, like a child riding a bike and suddenly the training wheels are off and I get scared again until I look into his eyes.