mama's here

“When u come to the end of all the light you know, and it’s time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen; either you will be given something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly.” ~ Edward Teller

*

It's close to ten p.m. as my nine year-old daughter, Katie shuffles into my room in her pajamas. She is crying.

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"Baby," I ask, "what is it?"

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She sniffles into her sleeve. "Mama .. I can't ... I just ... I need you."

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She stifles a sob.

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I sit up in bed and pat my lap. She climbs up and curls herself into me, throwing her arms around my neck.

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Years dissolve as I hold her just as I did when she was a nursing newborn. Her body is bigger now - comically so - but she is still my baby.

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"Tell me, sweet girl," I say softly. "Tell me."

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"It's just, well, I just .." a sharp breath swallows her words.

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"Take your time, sweet girl," I tell her. "Take your time."

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She looks up at me, her eyes wet with tears, pleading for something. Comfort. The words begin to tumble out, falling on top of one another.

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"Mama, I had this dream," she says. "Or this image. I don't know what it is really, but I can't make it go away. I just keep seeing it in my head, over and over again and it's scary, Mama and I can't get it out."

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She stops abruptly and buries her head in my chest.

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"Tell me, baby," I say. "Whatever it is, it's OK."

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She sniffles and wipes her face into my shirt.

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"You and I are in an elevator," she begins. "And we're really high up - like REALLY high, Mama. And there's a hole in it, right in the middle of the floor."

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She shudders and I wrap my arms more tightly around her.

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"And I don't see the hole and I go to step right into it. And it's like fifty miles down and it's dark and it's really scary."

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I grab her instinctively and her body curls into mine. She has managed now to fit every inch of her long, nearly ten year-old body into my meager five-foot frame. She is contained within her Mama.

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"And you grab me, Mama," she says breathlessly. "And you save me. And I'm safe."

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"Yes, baby," I tell her. "Always. I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."

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I squeeze the tight little circle of her as if to make the point. I'm here.

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It's always been the first thing I say when my babies call for me. Mama's here. It's instinctual. It's who I am. Mama's here.

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So that's it, then, right? "It's OK," I say again. "It's OK, my love."

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"But Mama," she says.

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"Yes, baby?"

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"What if you're NOT there?"

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I begin to say something, but she's not finished. I hold my words.

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"You saved me, Mama, she says, pleading with me to understand. "You SAVED me. WHAT IF YOU'RE NOT THERE?"

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And there it is. The rawest nerve of motherhood. The inescapable horror of knowing that someday, we won't be there to save them. And the desperate fear that some of our children may never have the tools to save themselves.

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I hold her in the darkness. And I make a promise. Not that I'll be around forever, but that I'll be here for as long as she and her sister need me to be. And I believe my words. Because as I look down at my sweet girl curled into her Mama, I know that this - this moment - this right here, right now - is who and what and where I was designed to be. And that is all that matters.

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Mama's here.  

**

Jess can be found at Diary of a Mom where she writes about life with her husband Luau* and their beautiful daughters - nine and-a-half year-old Katie*, an utterly fabulous typically a-typical fourth grader, and seven and-a-half year-old, Brooke*, a loving, talented, hilarious second grader who has autism.

She also runs the Diary of a Mom Facebook page, a warm and supportive community of parents, friends, adults on the autism spectrum and some random people in her life who cared enough to hit 'Like' and probably now wonder what they got themselves into.