Prolifically Raw: What Would You Do-Part II

Saturday, September 03, 2005

What Would You Do-Part II

First, thanks for all the comments. Here's how it played out.

A great spiritual teacher named Kalu Rinpoche once wrote that that more you indulge emotions, the more they require from you.

I pull out a wad of travel tissues and blow my nose. Both 18B & 18C look my way.

"One of us should reach over and offer take that baby," I say.

18C shakes her head.

"She doesn't seem like the kind of woman who will go for that," she says.

18B looks at me, at her friend and then at me again.

"I'm going to pray for her," 18B says.

She closes her eyes and her book closes over her hands. Her friend closes her eyes too.

I shift up in my seat to see what's going on and the child has stopped crying. She seems to be doing as her mother ordered, which is lying down on her mother's chest and sleeping.

Wise child.

We are still climbing and the seat belt sign is still on.

The power of prayer can reverse cancer, why not child abuse?

I close my own eyes but inside, there's no prayer...what is in here is reacting and judging and condemning and turning around in the ruts that have been formed since beginningless time: She is a terrible mother, TERRIBLE, who would do such a thing?
Oh come on,every mother has these kinds of moments. This might just be her moment, she may be a great mother, you're projecting. What about knowing what I know and just knowing it...okay...what about being an advocate, I could talk to the flight attendant. Yeah, I could get her name and call child services and report her, or I could say something to her like, "hey, take it easy." What if I do that and she smacks me upside the head?

Finally, I stop and my mind rests in a place that is just open and in that place of openness there is determination and behind that determination is action.

The seat belt sign dings off and I open my eyes.

"Excuse me," I say.

I unbuckle my belt.

18B & 18C both open thier eyes and there's the kind of resistance in both of them. Basic physics...a body in motion stays in motion, a body at rest stays at rest. It takes them a while to unbuckle, stand up, shift, twist and adjust to get me out of my window seat and into the aisle.

Once I'm out, they sit again and I am at the half way point of this plane. There are all these people, jammed into thier seats, looking up with wide eyes. Both the women in the seat next to the mother are looking up with big eyes too and they still lean away, as if they want to be anywhere but in that row.

I kneel down to one knee and the little girl isn't asleep after all. She sits up and smiles like an angel. I say..."hey, how old is your little girl?"

The mother looks up and tucked under the rim of her cap, she's got bright green eyes that are so young. She can't be more than 20. Her face still has that plump of baby fat and her skin is as soft as her childs.

"Almost two," she said.

I smile and nod like "sure, I know all about two."

"I have a three year old and an eight year old," I said, "it's a lot of work."

"You're not kidding," she said. "We've been up since four and I'm just worn out, flat out worn down. I just want her to sleep."

I'm nodding like, I know, I know, I know all about it and I do. I've been where this mother has been and it was not good to be without help. Those times of my own early mothering made me sad and afraid and mad. I know.

I find out that her name is Sandra and her little girl is named Isabella and they are on their way to New Mexico and yes, Sandra would love it if I would take Isabella for a little while.

Isabella comes to me faster than a peice of hair pulls away from soft butter. In my arms, she's solid and well fed and smiles that great smile direct at me.

"Hey, Isabella," I said, "want to go see the plane?"

"Sure," she says.

I get Isabella on my hip in that familiar way of the mother and she holds around my neck.

"I'll just be back here," I say to Sandra and she nods like that's fine. I'm pretty sure I could take this baby home for a couple weeks and Sandra would be okay with it.

I take Isabella to the back of the plane, where there are two flight attendants and they get all sorts of stuff together. Pretty soon Isabella has her own cup of water, a few cocktail straws, lemon wedges (she seems to like lemon very much) and a cookie. I show Isabella the window and she looks out, saying, "clouds," "water," "hills," and "lookie, lookie," pointing at something that she can't label yet.

I rub her back and nod, yes, I see, I see and she presses her face to the window to see more.

I wish I could say that I'm this person who is able to think with complete kindness and equanimity but I'm not. I'm still thinking more about Isabella as a victim and Sandra as a bully. My mind is so black and white, gripping ungenerous thoughts toward Sandra and her mothering in the same way that little Isabella grips her cocktail straws. I conjure a life of hell in my mind for Isabella, where she is burned with matches and shaken hard in the middle of the night for crying and who knows what else but honestly, I don't know if any of that is true. I can't judge Sandra because I can't really know.

It makes me think about how hard we are on mothers. We expect so much. In the end, even Hitler's mother took the rap for her son..."obviously, he must of had a terrible mother."

These impossible expectations can only lead to disaster since, inevitablly, we will fail in some way and when we do, it's the one failure (or the countless little ones) that cannot be forgiven and it is this lack of forgiveness that drives us into the ground. It is the burden of being a woman and of being a mother and we all carry it in some way. It's in how we judge other mothers and judge ourselves. And it's not just being a mother. It's being human. It's thinking black and white, good and bad, right and wrong and then acting from this place.

Maybe the way to stop is just stop all of this kind of thinking and offer a little help.

I get back to my seat and Isabella comes with me. She is having the best time checking out the barf bag and the magazines and the little pair of courtesy headphones. She wiggles to the lap of 18B and then 18C and back to me and all of us hold her for a while. She decides to go back to her mom and then, both the women in her row end up holding her too. Pretty soon, the woman in front of our row, 17C, is holding her as well.

Every woman within reaching distance has an opportunity to hold Isabella and why not, she's pretty wonderful. She's like a little golden dervish, swirling herself through the rows, taking turns being mothered.

By the time we land, she's back with Sandra and Sandra is talking to her in a kind voice that holds love and a bit more patience.

As they stand up to get their stuff, Isabella says, "lookie, Mommy," pointing at a man who stands behind them but Sandra is busy getting her stuff down and says, "just wait a darn minute."

I wish I could say that I feel just great about how things ended up. I mean, at least Sandra didn't yell or hit her again, but I feel a little afraid for both of them. Is this more black and white thinking? I don't know but I am filled with hope, nonetheless. I hope other mothers keep offering help to Sandra. I hope Sandra keeps taking that help. I hope Isabella has a good life without unnecessary harshness and I hope I remember to keep my own heart open, to be helpful and forgiving. I hope I can forgive to myself, I hope I can remember that each moment of being a mother (and a human) is just that, a moment. I can try my best, I can give as much as I can, I can fail, I can learn, I can say I'm sorry, I can try again. I can even change my mind.

Isabella and Sandra are on their way out and everyone says good bye to Isabella. She's waving like a movie star, "bye, bye," she says, "bye, bye."

I'm still locked into my row, waiting while the big women to get up and get thier things. They are talking about the next flight and if they have enough time for their connection.

I can hear Isabella's little voice, far away now, "bye bye," she says. "Bye bye," and then she's gone.

Bye, bye Isabella, I think to myself. Bye, bye Sandra.