Protective Custody

I had a recent date with fear. It was one of those dates you desperately want to end before it even begins. They say that a mother will do anything for her children. Stay up all night with a colicky baby. Drive across town to endless orthodontic appointments. Wait in the car with the engine idling, trying to look invisible while your sixteen-year-old-son kisses his date goodnight. Good mothers do those deeds and more. I try to be a good mother. More importantly, I am looking forward to becoming an awesome grandmother. Last week, with my daughter lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to bags of hospital stuff, fear stuck in my throat like a chunk of dirt. She's supposed to be at her baby shower, not here in this sterile scary room! And it's too early for the twins to be born! My insides twisted as fear danced in my belly. I prayed hard. Supermom hard. A few hours later at my daugther's shower, my mind was thick and fuzzy, my thoughts hinged on the two baby boys. Are they safe? Can they hear the prayers? As if we had been given protective custody over two neonatal strangers, the room stilled and my dear friend spoke an earnest prayer. Then, feeling like an impostor, I opened the shower gifts, ooohed and aaahed over tiny outfits and foreign-looking gadgets. Friends re-wrapped the presents, making them appear virgin-like, hiding the torn corners and rearranging hastily ripped-off ribbon. My daughter arrived home the next day, and she opened the gifts in her comfortable lounger. I feigned surprise as she gave her own rendition of delight. The twins remained secure, unscathed by the recent tumult. My breath escaped easier and my shoulders dropped an inch. Fear might be strong, but prayer is stronger. Fear shouts and prayer answers. And fear never makes a good date.