This has been weighing heavily on my mind these past few weeks. Our community was rocked by a horrible tragedy last month. A toddler about Rosie’s age was left in a car for eight hours in the parking lot outside his father’s office. His father that evening pulled over in another parking lot nearby his office and was noticed by witnesses hysterically giving his son CPR in vain on the pavement. The baby boy was dead, and probably had been for several hours.
The night that this horror was splashed all over the news, I couldn’t sleep. Visions of Rosie dying in a hot car tortured me every time I closed my eyes. My initial reaction was wondering frantically if I was capable of such a thing. I don’t get very much sleep at night (cough, Wren), and for that reason I am really hazy during the day. I sometimes feel like I am barely functioning if Wren has had a particularly bad night. Three helpless beings are completely dependent upon me and only me all day long for their well being and survival. The weight of this responsibility makes me panic if I ever think about it for too long. What if I get distracted for a few minutes with the other two and one falls in a pool? What if one of them gets ahold of some of my grandmother’s blood pressure medication and eats it? What if the swing set that they are on is too old and collapses? What if I absentmindedly forget to buckle one in or don’t buckle them in correctly and we are involved in a car accident? The list is endless and for each terrible accident I would hold myself completely accountable. This is the weighty responsibility of motherhood.