In Rememberance……

“Sing America first, and then God Bless America after that and then This Land is My Land for the end,” instructs my 5 year-old-daughter, Mimi. Then my cheek gets a kiss, and her pillow gets a punch before she rolls away from me to disappear under the covers.

This bedtime ritual is almost identical to the one I share with her 2 year-old-brother, except for one difference – the playlist. Wixi is more likely to ask, “Sing Sunshine, mommy.” He’s also become accustomed to Casey and Clementine – two favorites from my own childhood. Mimi knows these songs too. I sang them to her even before she was born. In fact, I so loved the songs of my childhood that as a girl I dreamed of the day I would share them with my children to comfort them or lull them to sleep as my mother had done for me.

Oh my darlin’ Oh my darlin’ Oh my darlin’ Clementine, you are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry Clementine.

When I asked my mom why she chose such melancholy songs for my childhood soundtrack she said she hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Those were the songs she grew up with and she thought they had a good rhythm for rocking. In the first few months of Mimi’s life, I continued that tradition in the quiet dark of her room, humming and rocking and singing – soothing myself as much as the baby.

Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine

Tried to help her, couldn’t save her, dreadful sorry Clementine

I was terrified of being a new mother and so unsure of myself. Feelings of incompetence and failure threatened to overwhelm me when nursing didn’t come naturally to us. Mimi wasn’t gaining weight and my husband had to feed her like a kitten from a Dixie cup. While her tiny tongue lapped at the milk, I sat helpless and wondered – what kind of mother can’t even feed her own baby?

My confidence plummeted. I was disgusted that I had ever thought myself worthy of caring for an infant. Negative thoughts ballooned in my head until I could think of nothing but my inadequacies. Every outfit I pulled from the drawer was potentially the outfit in which I would see her last. I was sure I would leave her in the grocery cart or forget her sleeping in the backseat of the car. Every photo became the one I would give to the police or see on the back of a milk carton. I had visions a neck-breaking fall down the stairs; heard the sound of screeching, crunching metal whenever I pulled out in traffic, smelled the smoke of the fire that would surely break-out if I were to ever let down my guard. The only way to squeeze out the debilitating disquietude was to sing.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.

These songs of my childhood helped me feel connected to my mother, who was close in proximity, yet not fully understanding my struggle. The songs reassured me that I was doing something right – I was giving my child this gift of family tradition and ritual.

Casey would waltz with the strawberry blonde and the band played on.

He’d glide ‘cross the floor with the girl he adored and the band played on.

By the time Mimi was three months old, she began to seem less fragile in my arms. I was finally able to climb out of my anxiety and see the joy in becoming her mother.

But my reprieve did not last long.

September 11^th 2001, on a tiny television in my office, I watched the twin towers fall. All my hard-won confidence came crashing down along with them. I knew that even in the relative safety of our mid-western town, our lives had changed forever. In the days following the attacks, my hands and feet tingled with anxiety and my lips were completely numb. I had come to terms with needing to protect my daughter from illness, bad influence and my own ineptitude – but suicidal terrorists? Again, I was helpless.

The only thing that gave me comfort was going back to that place in my mother’s arms. But this time, without really thinking about it, I began to whisper a new kind of lullaby at the edge of my baby’s ear.

God bless America, land that I love

Stand beside her and guide her

Through the night with the light from above

Somehow it gave me hope to speak these words out loud. Though I wasn’t at ground zero clearing debris, maybe my singing was serving a purpose, however small. In some way I was doing my part to heal the country and myself and promise a safe and happy life for my daughter.

Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain

For purple mountains majesty, above the fruited plains

Eventually, we developed our own ritual of watching the news with the sound turned off. I held her, fed her and rocked her – always singing softly and willing the people of our country to come together and bring peace for our children.

America, America, God shed his grace on thee and

Crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea

Two days after the attacks, we went to a gathering at our city’s minor league baseball field to grieve for the victims and to show support for the country. Through tears, the crowd sang the national anthem and strangers held tight to one another as if they’d been friends for years.

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming?

The next day, in our local paper I was surprised to find a large photo of Mimi curled up in my arms with her face against my chest and my lips pressed to her forehead. I was holding a small American flag, which was peeking in from the right side of the frame. I clipped the photo from the paper and reluctantly tucked it into her baby book. I’ve realized that no matter how desperately I want to control my daughter’s destiny – I simply can’t. I can comfort her and try to protect her, but her life is already framed in a way that I never imagined or planned.

The songs from her childhood are not melancholy like mine, but they are beautiful, passionate, and grand – a lot like Mimi. And a lot like America, too.  Still, my daughter lives in a country far different from the one I’ve known. Sometimes I worry that our post 9/11 nation is trapped in the early stages of motherhood – so vigilant, so anxious, so protective of her brood that five years later we are having trouble getting past the fear. In my heart I understand this too well. I understand the need to hold on tight and let no one in. The stakes are at their highest. But one thing I’ve learned from my daughter is that the best way to encourage her faith in herself is to loosen my grip and just sing.