The happy dance

 

“I looked at Antonia and I saw that she is beautiful,” my son said one quiet afternoon.

He was five years old. His sister, Antonia, had been born just a few weeks earlier.

In the months that followed, he became fiercely protective of her. He worried that the flies might hurt her while she slept outside. He scolded the neighbor kids when they were playing too loudly in the yard, afraid they’d wake her up. He grew visibly frustrated whenever she cried, irritated by my apparent inability to soothe her.

“Is she hungry, Mom? I think she’s hungry. Maybe she wants something better than milk? Can we please give her something else to eat?”

Honestly, it wasn’t a surprise. He had already started worrying about her when she was still inside me. One evening, while watching cartoons, he suddenly turned to me with a flash of inspiration:

“Mom, you should eat the TV! The baby is all alone in your belly and probably so bored! If you eat the TV, she could at least watch cartoons!”

And then came the turning point.

Antonia learned to stand. She would grab onto the furniture and bounce her little body up and down, making joyful sounds - her own version of dancing.

That summer day, Mihai was in his happy place: playing Crash Bandicoot on the PlayStation, entirely absorbed, lost to the world. Reality outside the game no longer existed.

Then Antonia crawled to the TV, pulled herself up, and started dancing, her wobbly body blocking the entire screen.

And just like that, the devoted big brother phase ended.

It would take another ten, maybe fifteen years before he looked at her again as the little sister who needed care and protection, rather than the loud, needy intruder constantly interfering with his very important business of being a boy.

A little bit wet

It is March in Finland.

I’m at work, in a meeting. My ten-year-old son is calling. It’s after school, and he should be at home, alone, probably bored. Or hungry. I hesitate for a moment, then decide to step out of the meeting and take the call.

“Mom, I’m a little bit wet.”

“Why? What happened? What do you mean you're wet?”

“Well, I went to the lake on our bikes with the boys. And I got a little wet.”

The lake is frozen. Almost.
It’s been sunny the past few days, and the ice is starting to thin near the shore, but the temperature is still mostly below zero. I’m not worried. Not yet.

“How wet is a little bit wet? What exactly did you do?”

“Well... I went into the lake. Just a little. I’m kind of wet and cold. And I don’t know what to do.”

Antti, one of his best friends, is with him. Antti’s house is just a few minutes’ walk from the lake.

“Go to Antti’s house. I’ll call his mom. I’ll be there soon.”

---

When Antti’s mom opens the door half an hour later, the look in her eyes tells me everything.

Something is very wrong.
She says, “He’s okay. He’s okay. Don’t be scared.”

Then I see him, standing by the fireplace, no clothes, wrapped in a blanket. His hair is wet.
Not a little bit wet.
He is soaked.

He had walked across the lake. The ice broke beneath him, and he fell in fully submerged. The other boys, either brave or unaware of the danger, crawled to the hole and pulled him out.

The avalanche of emotions is impossible to describe:
Gratitude. Terror. Anger. Relief. Horror. Joy. And gratitude again.
I can’t speak.

He looks afraid, not because of what happened, but because of me.
Because of what I might say. How I might react.

I hug him. I kiss him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters. Let’s go home.”

---

Later that night, after we’ve both had time to recover, I finally ask,
“Do you understand how dangerous this was? Haven’t we talked about frozen lakes?”

He looks straight at me and says,
“I’m sorry, Mom. But… can you please make me a list of everything in the world that’s dangerous?”

I want to.
I want to make that list. I want to hand it to him, laminate it, post it on the fridge and make sure he never goes near danger again. Ever.

But in that moment, I realize, horrified, that the idea we can protect the people we love, keep them safe at all times, is just something we tell ourselves. A comforting illusion.
The truth is: we don’t have control.

Lists aren’t the answer.

Angels are.

 Sanda / www.sandaberar.com

The story of my life in clip stories

 

The 5s without breathing.

He is asleep in my arms. I know I should put him in his crib, but I so need to feel him close. It’s my son’s first night at home. I lean and lay him down in the crib and go to my bed. My eyes are closing when my son’s breath stops: one second, two seconds. I’m on my feet. Three seconds, four seconds. This panic is something I have never experienced before. Five seconds. He is breathing again. And in that very second I realize that I will forever worry for him. There is no going back.  

The airport

I am waiting for my luggage to arrive. The belt is moving slowly, empty. I like the airport’s buzz, hearing the people’s voices surrounding me, it’s lively. Then I notice something feels odd. There is no buzzing. I look around, all the people are still there. I do not understand what is happening, are they talking, and I can’t hear, am I having a stroke or something? And then I know. This is Finland, the country I am just moving in. Life with the sounds and all I knew before is gone. I’ll need to learn to listen to silence.

I want to be happy now

My five years old daughter, she is a stubborn little one.  “Why you are not buying us a dog now” She is at the kitchen table and looks particularly decisive tonight. “We have had this conversation; we are going to have a dog when you will be old enough to be responsible for him”. “I don’t want to live my whole life wishing for something to happen in the future. I want to be happy today.”  I gasp. She is going to be the one raising me, not the other way around. 

Jump

I am sitting on the beach terrace in Crete. Phone rings, it’s from work. I can barely hear; reception is so bad. I am considering saying ‘sorry, let’s talk soon when I am in Finland’.  Instead, I move away from the terrace. I hear now. The Finnish branch is closing. We are being shut down. I have been offered a job at the headquarters in US. Can I consider moving to US?  I have been dreading a moment like this forever. Something comes around and I feel too scared to take a risk. Yes, I said. I can consider that.