Is The Baby Okay?
By Molly Poppe
My hands hit the pavement. Hard. The pain in my knees suggested bruising and scraping. A face bent so close to mine I could smell the tobacco on her breath.
“Is the baby okay?”
Was that the stranger’s voice or mine asking? My mind struggled to focus. After impact, the ambient noise had muffled, like those first few seconds underwater after a splashy cannonball, and nothing but muffled newborn cries filled my ears. At least the baby wasn’t knocked out. But was she bruised? Bleeding?
“Help me look at her head,” I managed to stammer. Shaking.
Smoke and kindness swirled together in her reply, “I think she’s alright.”
A guardian angel must have wedged himself between the thin canvas of the Ergo baby carrier and the hard pavement outside our local Aldi.
An aftershock of panic turned my thoughts to my next child. I did not remember hearing any squealing brakes or shouts. Maybe–oh please Lord, please–maybe he stopped in time. My breath caught in my chest as I looked up to see him in an older woman’s arms. Sucking on his fingers, unaware of the turmoil his disobedient action caused. Still, I was too relieved to be angry. He was safe. I reached for him, and as she made her way toward me, I noticed the concern written across her brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Her look carried memories.
“Yes ... I think.”
I stroked his face. “Baby, you scared Mommy. When you ran out that door I was so scared. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
I turned to see my preschooler walking alongside a third woman who was pushing my very full grocery cart through the glass doors. Breathing deeply, I took in the moment: five very different women stood around my little family, bringing us back together, murmuring, “I’m just glad the baby is okay.”
The afternoon began simply. My older son’s preschool American Ninja Warrior gymnastics would begin promptly at four-fifteen in the afternoon and I planned to take all three of my children to the grocery store across the street from the studio in between naps and class. Past experience told me late afternoon grocery trips often go awry, but I ignored that voice in favor of efficiency.
Five minutes into the trip, special snacks (bribes) had been promised, taken away, and given back again in a feeble (unsuccessful) attempt to keep my preschooler and toddler from wrestling in the cart. Distracted, I spent far too long deciding which cucumber to purchase, apologizing to another shopper who replied, “You take all the time you need, hun, you’ve got three kids at the grocery store.” A small inkling of pride surfaced in my heart but was quickly smothered by the embarrassment already taking up residence.
As we exited the checkout line, I handed my sons their special snacks, freeing them from the bondage of the cart. I opened my mouth to speak, but before “hold mommy’s hand” left my lips my toddler bolted toward the automatic glass doors. “Come back NOW,” I commanded, mustering up all the authority I could manage and attempting to stifle my fear. He only turned around long enough for me to see the playful challenge in his eyes: he was ready for the games to begin. I had no choice but to scramble after him, praying no cars would whip through the parking lot before I could grab him.
My preschool son, trying to help, ran in front of me. Tripping, fearing the imminent fall, I desperately tried to untangle my legs and used my hands to cushion the four-month-old baby in my front carrier.
Seconds after impact the women surrounded us (did they sense it was one of my darkest moments?) helping, holding babies, lifting me to my feet, returning my cart. I was shaking, but their gentle voices held no judgement as they anticipated my needs and accepted my weak gratitude with nothing but knowing smiles. They knew the challenges of raising children. Over and over I heard the words, “I’m just glad the baby is okay.”
Eventually, I gathered my groceries and children and headed toward the car. Reality had come back into view and we still needed to make it to gymnastics on time. As I buckled my babies into their seats I reflected on the past ten minutes. Although a small percentage of my day, the moments following my toddler’s escape had completely reoriented my perspective and unveiled the vast scope of the community of motherhood. We all have doubts. We all carry baggage. And sooner or later we all hit the pavement. Moments in motherhood bring us to our knees, send sharp pain into our hearts, and hot tears to our eyes. Our own failures or our child’s choices cut us deeply, but these struggles bring us together because we all carry the spark of motherhood in our hearts.
This spark ignites for mothers at different times and in different ways. Mine lit when two blue lines slowly appeared on a test strip taken with shaking hands, the newlywed glow still on my cheeks. Friends of mine recount the spark igniting when plans were made to conceive a child or to apply for adoption or foster parenting. In the unfair-cruel world, however, some women with the spark only long for children in their hearts. Regardless of when, how, or why the spark appears, motherhood is a collection of women sharing a piece of the narrative that has been told since Eve conceived and bore a son.
That fateful afternoon, I recognized the spark in five complete strangers. On another day, a day when bribery worked or children behaved or I simply did not attempt a poorly timed grocery trip, I would not have seen them. But in those split seconds on the pavement, my inner monologue told me I had completely failed motherhood. I failed my toddler and preschooler by expecting too much and not properly training them in grocery etiquette, and I failed to keep my four-month-old safe. Those dark moments on the asphalt threatened to smother my spark. But a community fanned the flames for me.
They did not look like me. Wrinkles, skin color, and clothing choices could easily have pulled us apart, grouping us by society’s labels, but the almost-tragedy of children in danger unified us. That day we epitomized one mother-flame burning together.
Differences in diaper preference or feeding or schooling and extra-curricular activities or skin color or socioeconomic status are just labels not walls. When we recognize the spark of motherhood, we burn down the walls that keep us apart. One afternoon in February, I lost control, feared for my babies, and hit the pavement, but the community of motherhood rescued me.
We all just want to make sure the baby is okay.
Guest essay written by Molly Poppe. Molly is saved by the blood of the lamb, and hopes to bring him glory by sharing her gift of writing. She used to teach second grade in Denver, Colorado, but a couple of years ago her husband, Nathanael, accepted the position as principal of a rural elementary school in Missouri. Now she is living her dream of being a full-time mom and spends her days teaching her favorite three humans, Zadok, Titus, and Esther, how to use their manners and tie their shoes. In her free time she writes, bakes bread, and runs enough mileage to balance her carb habit.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.