Safe Spaces

There's something to be said for safety, especially when you've been living in a state of total uncertainty for almost three years. Im not talking about me, this time. I know my safe spaces - I can retreat into a book, into a couple of glasses of wine, into coloring or online card games or knitting. I can take a long bubble bath and pretend the whole time that I am just living the life of a rich housewife. 

But safe spaces aren't as accessible for my children. Oftentimes, they don't even realize they're looking for one. 

Even with that in mind, mydaughter, I think, has fared better. She knows the details of my illness, and she knows how to duck and cover, whether that be in the library or with a teacher or merely by bouncing her ever present purple ball in the basement or the backyard. But for F, it's so much harder.

Here's a kid who was told his mama had advanced cancer just a few weeks after he turned four. In other words, it has been the foundation and background of his daily life. Mama is at the hospital. Mama needs to rest. Mama is using oxygen today; Mama has to take he medicine that makes her feel yucky. Mama can't pick you up. Mama can't ride bikes right now. Mama isn't able to teach you how to ski, even though she'd planned to do so since she learned how to do so herself a decade ago. Mama is sleeping. Mama's side hurts. Mama, Mama, Mama.

How do you grow up with this as your background noise? I really don't know. Most of the time, my beautiful son seems to be taking it all in stride, and he's as boisterous and confident and delicate and fine as any other 7 year old boy who loves sports and art with equal passion. 

And then the dinner bell rings. Every night - every single night - dinner is a struggle. During his entire year of being four, he ate a lot more mac and cheese and scrambled eggs and pizza than any small child really ought to. But we had limited options, and we wanted to make sure that we ate together, at least, even if the food wasn't that healthy. I was in no position to cook - food smells made me sick, and standing on my feet to make dinner sucked far more energy from me than one would expect. Anyway, by the time I came up for air, my formerly adventurous boy eater had become a carb fiend. No new flavors. No new smells.

This has been a huge point of contention in our home over the last year or so (he just turned seven), as any of you with reluctant eaters can imagine. Tonight, as a matter of fact, I made udon noodles with veggies - nothing very scary. Udon noodles stir fired with sweet peppers, pea pods, jicama, carrots, and tofu. He's had all of these things before. But as usual, he wouldn't eat. 

After my husband and my daughter cleared their plates (my daughter, M, had seconds!), there was my little princeling, nose barely over the edge of the dining room table, the usual threats ("eat or go to bed") being uttered by me.  And suddenly, I was so frustrated. So I launched into a diatribe about how I try hard to make meals that he will like, that feel familiar, that will give him the nutrients he needs to be strong and healthy. He responded with tears. 

At first, I ignored them, putting them in the category of "whiny child." But the tears continued, and I finally asked, why? Why are you crying? And little F said, "I feel bad that you try hard to make me a nice dinner and I don't like it." And all of a sudden, something in me clicked, and I pulled F onto my lap and quietly - oh! So quietly! - asked, "Do you like to eat the same foods because they feel safe?" And immediately, he nodded. 

"Life doesn't always feel so safe, does it, bug?" I asked the tiny boy curled up in my lap now. He shook his head vigorously. Do you get worried about me being sick? And immediately, again, a vehement nod. 

Ah, f#ck. Why had I not made this connection? 

We talked some more, and there was plenty of back rubbing, and hair smoothing, and finger petting, and we decided that we're okay, and that trying something different might be okay, as long as there were something familiar to fall back to. And we held each other, and cried a little, and loved a lot.

And I thought about how much I wouldn't have wanted to  miss this conversation for anything by, and how glad I am that I'm still alive. 

Sometimes, it's the rain that makes you grateful, rather than the sunshine.