My mom was crouching under the public bathroom hand dryer, scrubbing my baby doll and pleading with me.
“Please,” she said. “Let’s throw Dollie away, and we’ll get a new one when we’re home. I can’t save her.”
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Somewhere in the middle of a long family road trip in Idaho, I had thrown up all over my beloved yellow Dollie. The mess was unsolvable in a public restroom on the side of the road. My mom was desperate, knowing Dollie was my favorite possession in the world.
Even though I was just 4 or 5, I could see her desperation. I knew she was in a predicament. But my undeveloped brain wouldn’t allow me to accept what she was asking.
I shook my head fiercely. “No,” I said. “You can get her clean. I know you can. I can’t throw her away.”
I don’t know what steps my mom took to ultimately clean Dollie. All I know is that for several more years, Dollie was my constant, comforting companion.
Somehow, my mom performed a miracle.
We Are All My Mother
For my whole life, when this memory replayed in my mind, I was myself — the little girl who just couldn’t let go, even though the situation was desperate.
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But I’ve noticed over the last few years that when this memory sneaks back in, I somehow now remember it from my mother’s point of view.
I am the one crouched under the hand dryer, disgusted by the smells and stickiness of the bathroom. I know I’m in the way of the people bumping into me as they come in and out. I’m looking at Dollie, already worn and ratty from years of hard love — and I’m not sure how I’ll get the vomit out of the cotton that spills from the hole in the doll’s armpit.
And I know I’m asking the impossible of my child, but I ask it anyway. Because my own task is impossible.
“Please,” I say, knowing already what answer will come.
“Please. There has to be another way.”
Every mother is my mother, begging and pleading for this task to please resolve in an easier way.
“Please eat something that isn’t white. I’m afraid your growth will be stunted. Please.”
“Please don’t scream in public. People are staring, and this is so hard. Please.”
“Please pay attention in school. You’re falling behind, and I’m worried about your future. Please.”
We beg God, the universe, and the air: “Please send my child better friends who value them for who they are. Please.”
“Please let their teacher understand their quirks. Please.”
“Please, for the love of everything, make them get along with their siblings. Please.”
We are faced with the impossible every day. We know what we’re asking is impossible.
But we figure it out anyway.
A Beautiful, Frustrating Hope in Us
We stare at the filth on our child’s favorite lovie, knowing that a washing machine is going to tear the well-worn doll limb from limb. We beg our child to please relent; please love this dollie just a little less so we can get back on the road and back to easier solutions.
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But we look into our child’s eyes — we see their faith in us: a beautiful, but frustrating, hope.
We know what we have to do.
We stand up in that filthy public bathroom. We adjust the waistband on our jeans. We self-talk ourselves back from the edge of justified frustration and hopelessness. We wrap that baby doll in paper towels. We give our child a hug, and we head back out onto the road. We’ll solve this problem somehow.
We dread the upcoming process, but we’ll figure it out.
We might make mistakes, and we might not be able to fully solve the problem. But we won’t give up.
It’s Not Really Fair — What’s Asked of Us
It’s not really fair — what’s asked of us.
We have to find solutions to problems we never thought we’d encounter: Distance schooling while working. Sicknesses we aren’t equipped to heal. Mental illnesses that hurt our children and rip our hearts out.
We don’t have the expertise. We don’t have the know-how. Isn’t there an easier way?
Yet there we are: hitching up our pants as we set out to research problems, try solutions, seek advice, and try again and again and again. We try even when nothing works.
And then we try again.
It’s not really fair. And it’s exhausting.
But we’ll do it.
Again and again.
And though we’ll make plenty of mistakes, we’ll also perform miracles regularly.
Because that’s what happens when your only choice is to move forward. We are fragile from exhaustion, but we are also unimaginably strong.
The trick is to see that strength clearly.
My mother was unbelievably strong in that Idaho public restroom. Although, I suspect that because of the frustration, she would probably count that experience as one where she messed up. And you and I do this every day — discount how unbelievable it is that we move forward, despite the frustration and challenge.
It is a fiercely strong thing to put one foot in front of the other, even when everything in you wishes for an easier way.
