Talon had just finished a massive crying jag after his first big scare. Our glider rocking chair tumbled over accidentally, sending Mr. T on a roller-coaster drop as Grandpop flew forward with him in tow. The baby was safe and uninjured, but let forth a new type of bloodcurdling scream that rang with fear.
I sang and soothed and patted and rocked. As his jerking gasps subsided, I breathed my own sigh of relief. Crisis averted. First of so, so many.
That night, I thought about my own parents. I remembered the times I needed them to take care of me, physically, financially, emotionally. And, with twinges of guilt, the many more times I refused to let them help. Now that I am a parent of my own, I get the need to coddle and pat. To hold and sway. To do anything and everything in your power to make your child happy and whole again — even if your child is bigger than you.
I feel blessed to have parents who will always take care of me as best they can. Not only will I now let them, I’ve realized that I desperately need them to soothe me through the falls that are part and parcel of being human. My screams may be quieter than my son’s, but the drops are no less scary.