Finding the Courage to Let Him Fly
Content Guidance: This story details a possible child abduction attempt, and references intrusive catastrophic thoughts.
Photo Courtesy | Chelsy Meyer
BY CHELSY MEYER
“Some woman at the park . . . tried to take Dominic,” I choked out. The last word, my son’s name, came out as a sob.
I struggled to explain what happened while keeping my emotions in check. I knew calling my husband would be the thing that tore down the wall holding back my tears as I stood in front of the police officers. But I had to tell him so I wasn’t alone with the knowledge that my worst fear almost happened. In real life it happened, not in my worst nightmare, not as an intrusive thought. It happened right here, as real as my son’s smile.
I have a long past with grief, which has shaped a lot of the fears I have as a mom. I know all too well how easily life can be ripped from you. Losing someone close is incredibly traumatic. The thought of losing my child is unbearable.
So, once I became a mom, I was filled with intrusive thoughts and compulsions propelled by anxiety. I pictured everything from kidnapping, to drowning, and house fires. Car accidents, cancer, and catastrophic falls. Each night I’d check the monitor and make note of the time, just in case he was stolen in the middle of the night and I needed to tell the police the last time I saw him in his crib. I thought if I didn’t kiss the monitor before I went to bed something would happen to him. Rationally, I know that’s not the case. But if I didn’t do it I’d sit with the anxiety until I finally gave up and kissed the monitor so I could sleep.
Let’s just say, I’m not the chillest parent. When we’re at the playground, I’m right there in his space. It’s quite frustrating for my independent and adventurous two-year-old. I have to actively talk myself through letting him make mistakes, fall, and work through things on his own. I have to force myself to go at a slower pace while he runs ahead so he can explore the world on his own, without taking on my worry.
And then, one May morning, all of my anxieties were validated in a few minutes of terror.
At a new park I’d never been to before, I shadowed my son like I always did while he played on the toys. Another young mom was there with her son and I chatted with her as our kids played around each other, her boy toddling after mine. Dominic pulled around a giant stick, about the size of a hockey stick, when her son started wandering toward a lone soccer ball in the grass a bit away. I noticed a woman walking in our direction but didn’t think anything of her presence.
Suddenly, I heard the young mom scream. I turned to see the woman I just saw walking a moment before, now trying to pull the baby from his mom’s arms. The woman was holding the giant stick my son had just been playing with.
“He’s not your baby!” the woman yelled at the mom while pulling at her son. He began wailing.
Immediately I ran toward them and yelled for the woman to let the baby go. She did, but not before slapping the mom on the arm as the mom pulled her baby away. I yelled for the woman to leave, and she turned to do so. I walked up to the mom, who was crying on a bench, clutching her baby. I wanted to hug her.
“It’ll be okay,” I told her. “I’ll be right back, I just need to get my son.”
Without me realizing it, the woman was walking towards us again. Suddenly, she ran toward my son with the stick in her hands. He was climbing up a ladder on a play structure, still unaware of the scary situation unfolding around him. Before she reached my baby – my world – I ran toward her, lowered my shoulder, and checked her body into the ground.
Looking back, I feel like I watched her fall and hit the ground for a long time. In reality, I’m sure it was barely a second. I saw her fall, I saw the stick, and I knew I should grab it. But I couldn’t grab the stick and my son at the same time. I had to pick. I grabbed my son and put him on my hip. I twisted my frame so he was away from her, shielded by my body. She stood up with the stick and hit me in the thigh with it. My other knee slightly buckled from the hit, but otherwise I didn’t feel the connection at all.
What I did feel was rage.
My mind whirled with plans and scenarios on how to ensure she wasn’t able to hurt Dominic or try to take him. I held up my hand in case she swung the stick again. I screamed at her. My vision blurred with anger. I threatened her. She yelled back, demanding I let go of her baby. She wasn’t making any sense. I wanted to hit her or push her to get her away from us. But there was no way I was letting go of Dominic who was clinging to me fiercely, finally understanding the danger in front of him. As I yelled at her, he did the same. My fierce baby screamed at this woman like he was helping me.
She refused to back away or leave us. I was cornered in the bend of a play structure. I told her I’d call the cops if she didn’t leave. She was so sure in her stance, and told me to call them. I did and she walked away. I looked at the bench for the other mom, but she was gone.
I’d never been so relieved to feel my baby’s arms around my neck. He’s getting so big now, it’s hard to hold him for too long. But pain or exhaustion was not a feeling I was able to have at that moment. All I felt was relief as she put more distance between herself and us. My hands shook as I held my baby to my body. He was here, he was in my arms.
“You’re safe. We’re okay. You did such a good job. You’re okay. We’re okay,” I said to him, and also a little to myself.
Before the cops came, she walked back over to us. At this point I was at my car waiting for the police. As she walked back over, I put Dominic in his car seat quickly, stood in front of his door, and prepared for another altercation. To my surprise, she handed me a blue flower. I wondered what she must have been through. What trauma had this woman seen in her life that she’d do this? Did she have a child at some point? Had she lost a child? She didn’t seem to fear the cops coming, though the flower seemed to be an apology.
“Why did you do this?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. My phone was to my ear as I waited with the 911 dispatcher until the police arrived. As they drove up, she tried to open my car door. I pushed hard to keep it closed.
“No,” I said. She put her hand back down.
As the cops spoke to her, more families came to the park. She told the cops that, along with my son being her child, all of the other kids there were hers as well. It was clear she was mentally unwell, and was taken in on a psych hold. I felt sadness for me, for the other mom, and for this woman all at once as I drove back home.
That night, I held our baby monitor to my chest with the volume all the way up as I tried to sleep. I woke up often. Each time, I checked the monitor and kissed it before putting it back down. I contemplated sleeping on his floor. I kept waking up with visions of an empty crib and panic in my chest.
That first night was bad, but what about the rest of my days? What will it be like the next time we go to the park, or when he goes to the park without me? What will it feel like when someone gets too close to him? Will the park, the place of so many wonderful memories, forever fill me with dread? How will I be able to move past this? I try so hard to let him be independent, how will I ever be able to do that now? How many times will I go over the worst-case-scenarios from that day?
What if I’d been farther from him? What if it was someone with more sinister intentions? What if she’d had a weapon? What if it was someone who could have overpowered me? What if it happens again?
I know this is just the beginning for me; the beginning of more healing as I work through the increased anxiety this situation has awakened in me. It feels useless to think about odds to prove how irrational my fear is. The odds of all this happening to us at the park are very low, but it happened. How do I convince myself my fears are irrational when they come true? I don’t have the answers yet.
At the end of the day, my son is safe. She never laid one hand on him. I’m proud of how I handled it. I’m proud that I kept my son safe. I’m proud that I’m able to find compassion in a moment that felt so threatening.
For now, I’ll have to work even harder to find a balance for my anxiety about his safety. To feel aware and prepared without succumbing to the panic I feel in my chest when he turns a corner that I can’t see around. I don’t want to shrink his world, but sometimes I’m so scared for him that I can’t breathe. I know that’s my reality for a while.
That day, my worst nightmare was real. And somehow, after all that’s happened, I still have to learn how to keep my baby safe without clipping his wings. Without caging him so that I don’t worry about how far he can fly — or what he might meet in the sky.
Chelsy Meyer is a University of Montana journalism graduate who is now a copywriter living in Boise, Idaho. She is passionate about finding peace in parenthood through hearing raw stories from other mothers. Her poetry and writing has been featured in various books, blogs, and magazines. Writing is her passion, motherhood is her muse, and her hair is a mess. Read more of her poetry on Instagram @chelsywrites.