The Permanent Helmet
By Olivia Murphy
@oliviaemurphy_
It’s 5 p.m., and my daughters bounce from one sunlit patch in the yard to the next. To the neighbors passing by, we might look like an ordinary family trying to enjoy the beautiful weather we’re having, but enjoyment is not my only motive here. It’s the last hour before my husband gets home and I am doing the final countdown on a very long day. If anything can get my eyes off the ticking clock, it’s the outdoors.
My oldest daughter, June, stops bouncing long enough to announce she’d like to go for a scooter ride. It’s the third activity she’s suggested in the last ten minutes, but she knows I can’t say no to a walk. While she rummages through the garage to find her helmet, I attempt to herd my one-year-old into the stroller with a snack. When June rejoins us, her hot pink helmet is reflecting the low afternoon sun and her scooter is beneath her, ready to go. We set off toward the neighborhood pond like a family of ducks in a line.
Once we’ve made our final lap around the water, we arrive back home just as the yard fades from sunlit to shadowed. Even still, June asks if she can play for a little bit longer. When I say yes, she drops her scooter and runs to the middle of our lawn at the exact moment the baby informs me she no longer wants to be inside the stroller. Knowing I have mere minutes before a meltdown, I unlock our car and dig around in the trunk until I find what I am looking for: the baby carrier. My faithful, pre-dinner hero.
Just out of frame, June is balancing on the edge of a big rock beneath our hickory trees. It’s the oddly-shaped rock she couldn’t climb without our help when we first moved into this house. I can tell she is in “June’s World”, mumbling something only she can hear, with four-year-old drama written all over her face.
I pull out my phone to take a picture of her because, generously speaking, June is maybe 12 inches off of the ground, but you wouldn’t know it by the look on her face. She wears her bravest, most satisfied grin. It’s the look of an athlete summiting Everest.
What further adds to the comedy of this moment is that, casually fastened to the top of June’s head, is the bright, hot pink helmet she forgot to take off after our walk. If a neighbor were to walk by and see this scene, he or she might think I’m the type of mother who makes their kid put on a helmet before they can play in the yard.
At first, the mental image of this is funny.
But then I think, if only this fictional neighbor knew.
***
When we moved into this house two summers ago, strapping a permanent helmet onto June, scooter ride or not, would have tempted me. We had just said hello, and then goodbye, to three babies in a year-and-a-half’s time and an anxiety I had never known before had bound me. When it came to parenting June, every fall and scrape and car speeding past the front of our house had the ability to send my body into fight or flight. And when fear asked me to dance, I often took its hand. There were many nights I went to bed wondering what I would do if x or y or z occurred, certain something terrible would happen to her if I didn’t remain vigilant and prepared. Not surprisingly, I didn’t sleep well.
A permanent helmet would have been nice.
I would have asked it to protect her from mean kids and allergic reactions, too. From disappointment and broken bones. From feeling left out and visiting the emergency room. From illness and the dark shadows she was beginning to notice as she laid awake in bed at night.
I would have asked that helmet to prevent what I could not, though trust me when I say I tried.
***
A few months after our third miscarriage, I became pregnant with our second daughter, Lane. If there had been a helmet for babies in utero, I would have bought one—supported the Kickstarter, even. I needed to know that this would last. That Lane would be safe. That this pregnancy would be different than the three that came before it.
In my first trimester, I thought peace had finally arrived in the form of an at-home fetal doppler. I would slip away when the demands of motherhood quieted in the afternoons, once I was all alone and the house was still. Being alone was really my only requirement. I knew I couldn’t expose June to another pregnancy gone wrong and I was tired of explaining my complicated tears to a toddler. My fear had convinced me I was one second away from being back in a terrible replay, so I grasped that doppler like it was the last strand of a sweater that could unravel at any moment.
About a third of the way through the pregnancy, I sat down for dinner and swallowed a bite of meat. After weeks of nausea and food aversions, my chest tightened at the realization my now-familiar queasiness was gone. I was on auto-pilot through the rest of dinner and bedtime. I went through the motions of buttoning June’s pajamas and reading about the mishaps of Frog and Toad, but on the inside my mind was reeling.
When my husband and I shut the door to June’s room, I couldn’t relax my hurried pace. I flew into the living room where I opened the box to the doppler and assumed my well-worn position on the couch. I told myself not to panic and reminded myself to breathe as I swiped the probe across my pelvis again and again and again. With my own heart pounding like a hammer inside my ears, I finally heard the sound I longed to hear. Lane’s heart beating back at mine.
I let out a held breath and thanked God she was okay. I thought, There! See! Everything is okay! You didn’t need to be afraid!
But, eventually, machines must be turned off and put back in their cases.
And then what?
***
I snap three photos of June standing on the edge of her twelve inch Everest, then quickly slide my phone back into the pocket of my leggings. Lane is now squirming and arching her back beneath my chin, making it hard to get a clear picture anyways. I try to readjust her into a more comfortable position just as June yells, “Mom! Watch this!” and jumps.
***
Sometimes I wonder what my girls will remember about me. I don’t know the details of my own mother’s struggles from when she raised me. Were my sister and I begging her for a snack the moment she received devastating news? Did the ding of the dryer or an urgent call from work ever snap her back to reality? Did she try to contain her grief within the walls of her bedroom while my sister and I played in ours? If my mother had lost a child, would she have wanted permanent helmets for her living children, too?
I’ve made many mistakes in motherhood, and it seems I’ve only just begun. Some of those mistakes have been silly and harmless, like the time I forgot to pack wipes and drove thirty minutes away from them to have dinner with our friends. We had just finished our delicious meal and moved into their living room when, mid-sentence, I saw the mother of all stains climbing up the back of June’s onesie. I audibly gasped, and I hadn’t even looked inside the wipeless diaper bag yet.
But I’ve made other mistakes, too. The kind that aren’t very silly at all. Like the times I’ve lost my temper. Or the times I’ve cared more about my appearance than what was going on inside their hearts. The times I’ve allowed my fear to decline an invitation or I’ve held them back from trying something new. The times that parenting them after loss has felt like trying to bubble wrap their whole world.
***
My brain registers June’s yell a moment too late. When I look up, she is already standing in the soft, green grass. She landed the jump from her twelve inch Mount Everest and the helmet wasn’t necessary.
“You did it!” I yell back, as her arms raise in triumph. My shoulders are relaxed down my back and both of us are beaming.
She giggles and says, “I’m gonna do it again!” and I surprise even myself when I reply, “Yeah! Okay!”
The neighbors who walk by won’t know any of this. They won’t be able to put a hand on my steady, beating chest. They won’t know the two of us have just done a very brave thing. But l have three pictures to remember it, and I plan to show them to my girls one day.
Guest essay written by Olivia Murphy. Olivia lives in the rolling hills of Chattanooga, TN, with her husband, Michael, and their two little girls. She loves beautiful words, laughing often, and popping into thrift stores whenever she can. In her spare time, she enjoys writing, being outdoors with her family, and adding way too many books to her TBR pile. You can find more of Olivia's writing on Instagram and Substack.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.