Powerless

"Mama! Mama" JR's small hands pushed against my arms. He stared up at me with a mix of fear and worry. I was breathless and my grip on him was unrelenting. I couldn't let go of him. I could barely move. My mind had returned to a nightmare only hours earlier.

I had awoken to feed my daughter. She was peacefully tucked at my breast as I fell back asleep. In what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, I awoke to see her peering up at me, her arms working their way out of her wrap as if she were trying to reach for me, perhaps to comfort me. My body was tight, my heartbeat echoed in my ears.

I had a nightmare. I can't even bear to write the hazy images that are seared into my brain. I'm still trying to understand how such images entered my mind, invaded my dreams, and turned a rainy early morning into a bruising nightmare.

I can't protect you, can I? I'm sitting in front of JR watching his tiny fingers work the wheels of Lightening McQueen. He loves CARS. He pushes the little red car across the hardwood, an excited squeal escapes his lips. My shoulders tense.

His happiness protected by me. His body protected by me.

Little A's breath is warm against my neck. I feel the heft of her body resting against mine. She is so peaceful, so calm. I rest her on my knees, lean forward, and brush my cheek against her's. A lopsided grin forms on her face.

Her happiness protected by me. Her body protected by me.

But what if I can't? What if something happens? Illness. Accident. Or something far worse.

In my nightmare, I watched him hover over their tiny bodies. JR had curled his small frame around his sister, attempting to shield her. Unaware of the danger, Little A's legs kicked and her hands waved above her head. He knew I was powerless. My babies were his bounty. And I could do nothing.

From the warmth of my womb they came, but into the cold world they will go. For now they are safely curled in the niche of my body and under the ABC quilt in the room next to mine. But I won't always be there, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much I try. I don't think I have that kind of faith. And hope at times eludes me.

I've squeezed my eyes shut a thousand times today, willing the images to go away, praying that GOODNIGHT MOON, the fingerprint painting drying on the counter, the Cheerios under the couch, a single pink sock on the floor will distract me, remind me.

I don't feel like supermom right now. I feel frightened. I feel powerless.