Golem

At camp, an older girl tells her ghost stories.

Days later she recounts these to me, wide-eyed and in hushed tones typically reserved for the sharing of deep, dark secrets. But it's like that in a way, I suppose. These dark things, these dark things that go bump in the night, are pieces of her dawning comprehension of the truth of mortality. Of death, the deepest and darkest of all secrets.

Driving home from the grocery store she unexpectedly bursts into tears. "I want you to stay with me forever and ever and never leave me," she sobs. "Mommy, I don't want you to die."

How can I comfort her? I tell her I'm going to be around for a long, long time. But it means nothing. That I will die, that I must die, that this will happen regardless of how much she loves me, that is what matters to her. 

I can't deny it, though every part of me wants to spare her pain. "Death is a part of life," I say. I'm trying to find something true to say that she could find solace in, but I can't. Death is death. It terrifies me, too.

She asks to sleep with me almost every night now, and though my heart's sore and aching I put her off. I'm afraid of setting a dangerous precedent, one I'll have to wrestle with at bedtime for weeks to come, one that in the end will only serve to deepen her insecurity and fear. I have to think this way. I have to do the right things for her. The things that will be right in the long run, in her future life, for her future self, however unpleasant and difficult now.

I've begun to understand that real parenting -- the hard stuff, the stuff that hurts you more than it hurts them, the stuff that's for their own good whether they like it or not -- is comprised almost entirely of denial. It is a gigantic stone wall of refusal generated by a distant and murky future that like oracular mediums we're forever straining to see into, sniffing the ether to catch a whiff of impending disaster and despair that must be averted at all costs. That's my job. It's every parent's job, in a way. To erase terrible mistakes that have yet to be made. To conjure every possible nightmare and battle all of them into extinction. To make a monster from clay that holds your child's name under its tongue like a terrible promise, so that you may inscribe death on its forehead.

Comments

[TwoBusy]

Those last three lines should be inscribed on stone tablets and distributed to anyone with children.

Gorgeous.

[Jess]

What a beautiful way to describe the terrifying reality that is parenthood.

[Bethany]

Damn you're good. Raelly well-put...

[Heather]

When I was a kid and had nightmares, I was allowed to sleep on the floor next to my parents' bed until I wasn't feeling scared anymore. And my mom suggested that I think of something beautiful and happy to help me feel better. I always imagined a bunch of balloons flying away, and image I had seen on Sesame Street.

So even now, when I have nightmares I imagine a bunch of balloons flying away.

[Sweetney]

Thank you, kind sir. 
I find the idea of golems fascinating though. They're sort of like Frankenstein, but even creepier in a way, because they aren't even human, never were human. There's no humanity there, and so no possible residual conscience or mercy or fear. Scary.

[slouching mom]

i loved this.

[EB]

I'm 25 now, and capable of sleeping alone, but it cuts right through me to think of all those nights I spent terrified and sleepless in my own bed as a child, sweating into the blankets but too scared to get out from under them. I'm sure you know what's right for your daughter, and this isn't meant as a challenge to your parenting, but I wish my parents had come up with something better than leaving me to figure it out alone.

[Sweetney]

Not really the point of the post, but whatever your parents may have done, I wouldn't just leave her sobbing alone in her room or something. My intention was really to explore how parenting involves constantly reckoning with, switching, and navigating between the present and future in unique ways. The sense of being intensely beholden to the future, to your future child and who he or she becomes, is at times a bit surreal. Parents are always having to project into the future and think about long-term and short-term consequences, multitudes of variables, worst/best case scenarios and (as highlighted here) dreadful fears of potential harm any and all choices and decisions they make may cause... that was really what I was driving at, boiled down to a simplified essence.

[Redneck Mommy]

Such poetry my friend. You are making me envious with the words you weave. Good job.

[TwoBusy]

I kept waiting to see how you were going to tie the golem myth into what you were talking about... and when it finally came, it was beautiful and scary and, therefore, entirely perfect.

[KimAZ]

Ah, the point? She is missed by some...
I didn't miss it.
Your words are always perfect.

[Jill]

My heart is breaking right now reading this. I wish I could tell you that this will go away in a few weeks. But it won't. But... you're doing the right thing by not letting her sleep with you. The sad reality every child of separation/divorce learns is that nothing is permanent, things go away, even the things you hold most dear. But it's true. And it's real and it's life and some people just learn that earlier than others.

[sweetsalty kate]

Yeah, this one's not about sleeping.

It read to me like the start of her choosing her own myths, or seeing the need for a choice, and you revisiting yours because of it.

Absolutely beautiful, Tracey.

[Marilyn (MBels)]

Wow. Just wow. What a fantastic post. Really moving.

[flutter]

You are such a gifted pen, just amazing.

[lynn]

During the divorce, Lauren had horrible night terrors and only wanted her daddy. The terrors were about me dying. Both the dreams and her resistance to me broke my heart. Finally, I stopped making her sleep in her own bed. The terrors stopped. She cuddled against me every night for about six weeks, and did the same with her dad when she was with him. Then she wanted to sleep in her own room again.

My therapist told me to give her the comfort she was asking for, even if she wasn't asking for it for "divorce" reasons. I'm so glad I did, because in my mind there was no reason to make my child suffer in a bed without me for fear of screwing her up later. The divorce was screwing her up enough.

I'm not saying you're wrong or right, just relating what I did and how it felt. (And it felt great, not only to be there for her, but also to have her cuddling me when I was still so sad, too).

[Megan H]

This is a beautiful piece of writing. I am going through this with my daughter. She is 6 and has became afraid of almost everything - tornadoes, robbers, things that go bump in the night. All of it comes down to her fear of death - that she will be separated from her family or we will be taken from her - that I will die. I have the same struggle you do. How can I say "I'll never leave you" to comfort her when I know it's a lie? How can I help her past her fear when I am not past mine? My biggest fear is of losing her or her brother - of being separated from them. She and I fear the same thing, yet I am the parent. I can no longer afford to give voice to my fear because I find solace for hers.

[Susie]

Beautiful/terrifying. this is what I'm struggling with, trying to decide if I am strong enough to have children.

[Belle]

Gah, that breaks my heart!! I watch a friend of mine's little girl pretty often, so she got to know my grandmother really well. When my grandmother passed, she was obviously upset, and we decided to take her to the funeral. Since then, she very enthusiastically talks about heaven. She'll occasionally say "I miss Mimi," but she'll also say she is going to see Mimi in heaven.
It's a hard thing to tell kiddoes that you'll die someday, but not for a LONG TIME, because they often think 30 minutes is a long time...
Sounds like you've got it handled though, if such a topic can be. Good luck! And beautifully written.

[Lisa]

I just found your blog today, and so far have found myself choking up multiple times. This post in particular gets me RIGHT THERE.

Self(ish)... I cannot wait until 7:30 when the kids are in bed and I actually have the peace to think about What I'm Going To Do When I Can Be Just Me Again.

Thank you, Tracey, for you. You knock me out.