A child’s fears

Earlier this week my husband related an amusing anecdote to me as we got our girls ready for bed. The teenage son of one of his coworkers had begun to use a phrase to express to his mom that he is happy to do a chore for her. This boy reportedly says, "Sure, Mom. You pushed me out of your vagina." My husband looked amused. I said, "What?? I don't get it." So he gave me an example:

Mom: "Can you put out the garbage cans?"
Boy: "Sure, Mom. You pushed me out of your vagina. I can put out the garbage cans."

This was apparently all said in fun and with a certain amount of sincere gratitude. I asked if the mother minded. He said, "No." Hmm, I thought.

Then the fun began.

My 32 month-old daughter, Hannah, had listened to this whole exchange, and we both now noted her concerned look. She said, "What did Daddy say?"

"I was talking about a friend’s son."

"No. What did Daddy say?" He then tried to put her off with a different anecdote he had told about the same boy.

"No. What did Daddy say about 'pushing?'"

"I was talking about how when mommies have babies in their bellies that they push them out so they can be born."

"No. What did Daddy say about 'vagina?'"

Cornered. "Well, mommies and girls have vaginas."

Upset, "No. What did Daddy say about 'pushing'...'baby'…" Face contorting into a cry, "…'out'…'garbage cans?!'" As she spit out the last words she began to sob loudly and collapsed into my arms and put her head on my shoulder.

I held her tightly and rocked her, trying to explain through her sobs that babies don’t have anything to do with garbage cans, that we loved her, and that we were keeping her forever.

It’s hard for me to think of a time that she was more intensely overcome with sadness at the mere thought of something. I can’t get it out of my head that Hannah apparently feared that we were going to put her out with the garbage. This is a little girl who has a stay-at-home mom. Her father has been home in time to put her to bed every night but two of her life. We shower her with affection, and she freely gives it back. We talk about our past, our present, and our futures together.

It has made me think about how vulnerable children must feel. That Hannah’s fears were so easily brought to the surface, even while we gave her milk, changed her diaper, held her, and began our familiar and cherished bedtime rituals, gives me some insight into how easily a child’s sense of security can be compromised.

I’m trying to hold her a little more closely. And I’ve told my husband he can’t bring home anymore stories from that coworker.