Baby Mine

Remember the story of Dumbo, the little elephant with the huge ears?
His mother rocks him and sings this song to him:

Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part
Baby of Mine

Little one, when you play
Don't you mind what they say
Let those eyes sparkle and shine
Never a tear
Baby of Mine

If they knew sweet little you
They'd end up loving you too
And those same people who scold you
What they'd give for just the right to hold you

From your head to your toes
You're so sweet goodness knows
You are so precious to me
Cute as can be
Baby of Mine
Baby Mine, Baby Mine**


My daughter loves to sing, and when her door is closed it is usually because she is practicing with a Karaoke.  I usually don't disturb her, but tonight I walk in to find tears running down her face while this song plays.

So I grab a blanket and sit beside her, covering her and pulling her close.  We've been down this road before.  Less often as time goes on, but still, it is familiar territory and I know that I have no magic answers, no great enlightening wisdom that will help her make sense of the things that happened to her in school.

At first she tries to excuse herself.  "I don't know why this makes me cry. I've only listened to it a few times, but every time I hear it, I cry."  I say nothing, just hold her, and wait for the self-consciousness to ease and the words to start to flow.

And they come.  In bits and pieces, with starts and stops.  Just a few pieces of the puzzle at the time, day by day, year by year.  I learn a little more each time.

She says "I thought it was just me.  But there were others, too.  I just didn't know it at the time."  And with a question or two, I learn that she's not talking about being hurt by the other kids, but by the teachers.  I learn about her growing understanding that she wasn't the only one being hurt.

She says "I don't remember the things, what things happened.  I just remember the feelings."  And the words come, words of confusion because she didn't know "what" exactly she was doing wrong or how to "fix" herself;  words of hurt because this big person in charge looked at her with distaste and spoke so harshly;  words of fear because this new thing called school just went on and on and on and was going to be the rest of her life maybe FOREVER and it was AWFUL and HORRIBLE and nobody not even Mama could save her from it.  Because tomorrow morning it would start all over again.

And I just sit, dumb and mostly unspeaking.  Caught up in a world seen through her eyes.  Learning a little so that maybe next time I'll have thoughts that might help.  Praying a lot because I cannot make something make sense when it makes no sense.

Until she snuggles it out and climbs in the bed.  She'll sleep, and tomorrow she will forget and paint and sing and read and talk.  It used to carry over to the next day, but now it lasts only hours.

She sleeps, and Mama thinks.  Thinks about big ears.  About running legs that just cannot be still for long periods of time.  About boring work that makes no sense.  About a mind that uses not a flashlight, but a floodlight, trapped in a classroom that uses a match.  About an eager, spontaneous, laughing little girl medicated into the numbness they called "normal behavior".

Thinks about a 5-year-old child whose mother left at just about the time he joined the Wonderful World of Government School, and his growth into the 15-year-old boy who moves across the country and attends a school of 1900 students, a school so large that logistics alone would preclude any hope that students would not fall through the cracks.  Thinks about a boy who has no adult options and MUST attend school daily, irregardless of the treatment there.  Until the day he crumbles into an insanity that cannot be excused, and then he can be tried as an adult.

Thinks about uncaring teachers who do not like their students, and the power they wield.  Thinks about bullies and tormentors and harried fathers.

Thinks about having no mother to sing Baby Mine.

Some nights are not made for sleep.

© Cathy Henderson 2001