Dear Jane

Dear Jane,
Last night, I took you to McDonald's.  You are three, and going there is a big deal.  You got a chicken nugget happy meal with fries and an orange drink and sliced apples, which were the only things you didn't touch.  You talked and chair-danced to Motown and laughed and climbed all over the play place.

Right now, you are potty training.  You are really fascinated with the ritual of going and wiping and flushing and washing your hands.  Going at McDonald's is fun, because they have loud hot-air dryers for your hands.  But it is also scary, because they don't have tiny potties, and you are afraid to fall in.  So I kneel in front of you and hold you in a kind of hug while you go so that you are safe.

I am trying not to laugh at the noises you make as you try to poop.  You are really serious about being a good girl and keeping your pants clean.  But all of a sudden, holding you this way with your face resting against my face and your arms around my neck and my hands holding your back prompts a memory of me sitting this way on a hospital toilet while your dad held me with his face against my face and my arms around his neck and his hands holding my back while I felt the worst pain of my life so far.

I remember how necessary being held was right then and how frightened I was that something would go wrong.  I remember wishing for a mother and crying along with the other pains and fears that I didn't have a mother to comfort me.  I remember all of my modesty and careful pretense utterly deserting me as I sobbed and breathed.

And as I held you tonight and heard your almost-baby breathing so close to my ear, I thought: Twenty years, maybe thirty years from now, you will be straining like this with your own child.  And I will be so glad to hold you just like this if you need me.  Whatever happens between us while you are growing up, I will be there to kneel in front of you in that painful and purposeful embrace to soothe you and keep you safe.

Love, Mom