A Reflex

When you have a quiet baby, and you happen to be a quiet person, and it's just the two of you in a quiet house all day, suddenly, mundane noises can become quite loud. When all you've heard in a given day is the breathing and cooing of your infant, unloading the dishwasher, closing the dryer door, opening a can of Diet Coke, grinding the pepper mill, sneezing, even turning on the faucet get magnified to the decibel of a thunder clap. And if one of those cacophonous sounds happens to occur right as your baby is drifting off to sleep, they are bound to startle her back into wide-eyed alertness. 'Grrreat,' says Mom after a very bad night of sleep.

These noises can also spark what Dr. Don calls a moro reflex - the medical term for a natural, protective reaction that babies make in response to a loud sound or unexpected movement. It's like a more dramatic flinch. In Mary's case, this reflex triggers her arms to extend above her head then come back toward her body, as her eyes bug out and her brow furrows. It's her I'm scared / nervous look and it always makes me feel bad, especially when I'm the one who sparked it. 

Yesterday, while doing the laundry, the inevitable slamming of both the washer and dryer doors, (Bam, BAM!) startled Mary into a moro reflex. Up went her arms and on went her frightened face. I held her tight and said, 'You're okay. Mommy is never going to let anything bad happen to you.' 

The moment I said it, I started to think about the implications of that promise. I looked down at the little pimple blooming on her left cheek (another symptom of a newborn's adjustment to life) and I thought, well, what happens when that pimple shows up with a vengeance and invites ten more of his friends when Mary hits freshman year of high school? Will I be there to fend off the nastiest comments from the meanest girls? I thought about angry coaches, ornery teachers, bad boyfriends, and parties that get out of hand. I thought about falls, missteps, and wrong turns. I thought about skinned knees, bruises, and even broken bones. Then yesterday afternoon, I thought about terror. I thought about Mary making her Mom proud, literally following in my footsteps or perhaps running by my side, crossing a finish line. And I heard the blast that echoed through every news outlet yesterday. I thought, no matter what I do I won't be able to keep my daughter safe from the loudest, scariest, most hurtful noises - the sounds that don't deserve a place in this world.

Really, the reassuring words that I offered Mary were a stark impossibility. Sure, in the moment nothing bad was going to happen. She was safe as can be wrapped in my embrace, but soon enough I will need to let her go. And she will need to use her own protective mechanisms.

The problem is, even with natural and learned reflexes, helping us fend off the bad stuff, there is only so much we can do to combat the unforeseen, unnatural evil that keeps getting louder and louder. And it seems that no matter how much money, regulation, or resources we put against it, the terror continues to plague us.

While I'll likely continue to hold Mary close and tell her that I'm going to keep her safe, I realize that it can't be from everything and for always. And because this is so, I will also tell her, 'It's okay. Mommy is going to teach you how to be braver, stronger, and faster than the cowards who continue to try to destroy the beauty and innocence of our world. We'll cross many more finish lines anyway.'

Lo.