Kids grow up.  It’s just the way things are and the way they should be.  They start out completely dependent on you for every little thing and for most parents that responsibility is both invigorating and scary as hell.  Thankfully kids don’t just suddenly wake up twenty-seven years old- even if they do think they’ve grown up overnight.  It’s a gradual process that allows parents a chance to settle into each new phase of growth before another sets in.

But kids aren’t the only ones who grow up.  When I got pregnant with BB, I was sure I had all the answers for everything life could throw at us.  I knew how I would parent, I knew how I’d feed him, I knew what life was going to be like.  I imagine I wasn’t the only pregnant woman to ever feel so damed certain, and I’m sure I wasn’t the last.  I think it must be a natural phase of the continued growth of women. I grew a lot after he was born, but I was still pretty sure I had all the answers…or at least most of them.  And the answers I didn’t have could be plucked from good books or websites.

I think I pretty much rocked being the mother to a baby and toddler.  My nanny experience, my Montessori experience, my natural patience all had me feeling well prepared.

Then one day when BB was about four–the age where I start remembering my childhood abuse–I had a complete panic attack in public.

Hubby had to go out of town and we opted to go with him.  I dropped him off at his conference and, since it was too windy and dusty to go to a playground, we headed to McDonald’s playland so he could burn off a little steam.  I’ve always hated places like that.  They stink, they’re full of germs (and I am not a germophobe), and since they’re colored tubes, you can’t see what’s going on inside.  Maybe it was the wind.  Maybe it was being in a strange town’s even stranger Playland.  Or maybe I was trying to work through some issues without being aware of working them out.  For no reason in particular I became totally, 100%, absolutely positive that there was a pedophile at the top of the structure, safe from the prying eyes of mothers, just waiting for my boy.  My mouth went dry, my lips went numb, I got dizzy, I couldn’t feel my feet or hands, and the room started spinning.  I stumbled to the slide and called up to BB.  He didn’t answer.  I could feel sweat trickling down my back, hear my heart pounding in my ears.  I called again, in the calmest voice I could muster: “Come on BB.  It’s time to go now.”  No answer.  Shit.  It wasn’t paranoia after all.  It was my instinct kicking in.  My boy was in trouble and somehow I could feel it.  I stepped back and surveyed the structure, looking for a big shadow, looking for an easy way up.  I went back to the slide, determined to climb up the damned thing.

More sternly now, “BB.  Let’s go. Now, please”.  I heard thumping and moments later my sweaty, curly haired little boy slid down to me, all smiles and perfectly unharmed.  I gathered him in my arms, breathed in his little boy smell and started sobbing right there in front of the slide.  He was safe and he was with me.  But I realized that anything could happen to him any time and any where.  I felt so powerless.

For a long time I was guilty of surrounding him in what I believed was a wall of safety.  I refused to leave him at a friend’s house for a playdate, if he climbed a tree, I stood right under him the whole time, every time I showered I’d lock every door and window in the house and then leave the bathroom door open.  I could get through a shower in about 2.5 minutes.

Of course this level of fear and paranoia is not sustainable and most certainly not healthy.  I slowly pulled myself out of it, allowing BB more freedom even though it hurt me to do so.  The first time he rode his bike up the block (not even around the block, just up it) I thought I was going to throw up from fear.

I still have a lot of growing up to do in the parenting department, but I’ve learned to let go quite a bit and letting go has been one of the best things I could have ever done for both of us.  He has playdates and sleepovers without me all the time, and while I sleep with the phone next to the bed in case he calls, I feel fine about it.  I have worked hard to create a network of people that I love and trust with my son and I know that they will keep him safe in my stead.  It’s nice to know that he can have a break from me and that he’s fine.  It’s nice not to worry about the imaginary predator in the play structure or behind the bushes.

This isn’t a perfect world, and I’m painfully aware of that, but I know the odds of bad stuff  actually happening to BB are statistically low.  I guess I’ve finally grown up enough to focus on the good things that do happen rather than freak out about the bad stuff that could happen.

Who knew regular sleepovers could be so cathartic?