Every day as a parent makes me a little more thoughtful of my own parents.
I hear my son tumble down the stairs and my heart stops for a moment, terrified of the next sound I might hear (crying? a loud thud? nothing?), afraid to peak around the corner, but racing over anyway. And then the all clear "I'm ok" and I can breathe again, my heart can beat again.
On the ski lift. I am sure that he can slip through that space, even with his helmet on (we didn't have helmets, how could my parents trust that I wouldn't get hurt without a helmet on? I shudder involuntarily as I imagine this summer's bicycle riding lessons), he could fit through that space and fall fall fall. At first, he is nervous and comforted that I am holding on to him. But I don't want him to worry; we're not going to fall, the lift will not fall, this is how it works. We talk about how it works and how they built it and all the time I am holding my breath just a little. And then it's time to raise the bar "please sit back just a little more" and tips up and we are sliding off.
The second time, he is confident and his friend is in the chair behind us. He wants to turn around and talk to him, but I hold his shoulder. Stop mom stop mom, squirm squirm fidget. I put my hands in my lap,for a moment I can do this, and then I realize that I can't not hold him, not when he could slip through. Without even wanting to, I grab his shoulder again. He wiggles more, I panic more, he wiggles more, I put my hands in my lap. I hold my ski poles tightly across his waist.
It's a beautiful day and we are happy and I hope that it's enough.
And so, I think of all the little times that my parents must have worried, must have gulped and held their tongue. 40 some years is a long time to hold your breath.
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