Lies We Tell Our Children

“I’m never going to let anything happen to you.”

Swinging and dancing, a 4-month old Lizzy in my arms, a rush of love swells over me; I hug her tightly to my chest, kiss her sweet face, and whisper fiercely, “I’m never going to let anything happen to you.”

Awake in the frozen night, my stomach cramping with sickness and pain, a peacefully sleeping 9-month-old Lizzy in my arms and at my breast, I think how I must become healthy for her sake, how she must have a healthy life and a healthy body. I stroke the wisping blonde strands of her hair, kiss her angel brow, and swear to the empty and howling night, “I’m never going to let anything happen to her.”

A tearful and distraught 23-month-old Lizzy, bleeding from a cut lip, clings desperately to me after falling down a flight of six steps, trying to carry her stuffed animals downstairs. I kiss away her tears, soothe her, nurse her. I promise, “I’m never going to let anything like that happen to you again.”

“I’m going to give you the life you deserve.”

My footsteps thud and echo against the lapping waves beneath me as I walk down the long pier into the dusky sky. I sing softly to a 14-month-old Lizzy, trying to lull her down after a long day at a garden shop and dinner afterwards overlooking the bay. I watch the rising moon cast its light over the slow breaking waves, and I think how I must work as long and as hard as I need to in order to give Lizzy the life she should have. With a yearning so strong I can feel it throbbing in my pulse, I vow, “I’m going to give you the life you deserve, Lizzy.”

I stand at the crest of a hill, overlooking a glorious sunset on a horse farm. A just-nodded-off, 15-month old Lizzy sprawls, exhausted in my arms. I hold her heartbeat-to-heartbeat, feel her beautiful little body breathing steadily against mine, and watch the setting sun across the countryside. I think how I must get out of the city, into the country, and surround her with the plants and animals she loves so much. “I’m going to do it, Lizzy,” I swear quietly to the red-and-orange-streaked sky, “I’m going to give you the life you deserve.”

Awake into the small hours of the night, tears slipping like shadows down my face, a sleeping, 19-month-old Lizzy beside me, I lay wondering how my marriage fell apart. Knowing that Lizzy must be preserved from as much of this as she can be, at all costs, and against all odds, I swear to myself and to her: “We will get through this, my love. I’m going to give you the life you deserve.”

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

My body sore and aching from labor, tears running in pure exhaustion and unadulterated joy down my face, I hold a tense and screaming two-day-old newborn Lizzy to my breast and urge her to nurse: “Hush my darling, everything’s okay. I promise. Everything’s going to be okay.”

I gently undress an exhausted newly-turned 1-year-old birthday girl from her birthday dress, as she cries off and on, fitfully, more than ready for bed. “Oh, it’s okay,” I soothe, “Mama’s going to get into bed with you now and nurse you; everything’s going to be okay.”

A 22-month-old Lizzy slips and scratches her hands against a patch of frozen snow. I kiss, caress, and bandage her red little hands, soothing her tears against the pain, and promising, “It’ll go away soon, my love. The pain will go away soon, and everything will be okay.”

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A sick and gasping 24-months-and 13-day-old Lizzy lies in the emergency room, oxygen tubes pumping air into her nostrils. “Mommy,” she cries. “Water,” she cries, her dehydrated, pneumonia-ridden body listless, her beautiful blue eyes sunken into her face. “Shhh, my darling,” I whisper, stroking her forehead, the line from ear to jaw, the shape of her brow, “they’re giving you water now.” They insert the IV and she barely reacts. “I’m here, my baby,” I cry, desperate and helpless, “Mommy’s right here. I’m not going anywhere. They’re just going to put you to sleep for a little while, but everything’s going to be okay. I love you.” They push me away so that they can intubate her. It’s the last time I see her eyes open.

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I told Lizzy these lies, over and over again. I told myself these lies over and over again. What sort of insane hubris makes us think that we can promise these things? This life is full of pain at every turn, twist, bend, or twitch of the road. There is no avoiding that. No making it okay. No protecting them from it. There are only the lies we tell ourselves and our children so that we can go to sleep at night and get out of bed the next day. And maybe, for that reason alone, they are the most important lies we tell.