2:50 a.m., I was shaken out of my slumber. I felt jarred but quickly recognized the rhythm of the tiny hand pats that disrupted my dreams. I lift the eye mask from my eyes, shifting it to my forehead. My eyes focus, as well as they can in a dark room without my glasses.
My three year old is the patter. A tender aged child.
“Mama. I need water” he mumble-whined. It’s his special middle of the night voice. It sounds muffled and far away. But I know it anywhere. This wake-up call is not a rare occurrence. At the minimum he does this once a week. Sometimes more.
“Mmm. Ok.” I murmur. Still asleep. I take the ear plugs from my ears and place them on my nightstand.
Gathering myself I sit on the edge of my bed. His little body against my knees.
“Ok. Mama get you some water. Then we go to your bed?”
I scoop him up in my lap. His face nestled in to my neck. It’s their spot. Always the right side of my body. The crook between my neck and shoulder seems perfectly molded for my children’s faces. No matter their size.
“Do you want one of your water bottles?”
“Yeah mama,” still his middle of the night mumble-whine.
“Ok. Let’s get you one. Then mama put you in your bed.”
“No, mama. I go sleep in your bed.”
I’m silent this time. Knowing better than getting him all worked up. The less we talk about it the better. It’s what works for him.
Carrying his 33 pounds, groggy across the house, I fumble through the dark kitchen cabinet and find a water bottle. No lid. I set him down on the ground and sigh. Squinting, luckily I remembered my glasses, I rummage through the clean dishwasher. Finding the straw and lid. Relief. The sound of water hitting the plastic fills the silence of the 3am kitchen. The city is eerily silent at that time. The cacophony of city sounds silenced
I hand him his water bottle and scoop him up. He finds his spot. Soft skin against mine. His breathing vibrating through my body.
“No mama. I sleep in you bed,” he noticed I took a different path. The path to his room.
“Mmm you’re a big boy. You have to sleep in your bed sweetheart,” I wonder in my head if I should just bring him with me. No. The doctor says to put him in his bed. I have an arbitrary cut off time. 4 a.m. If it’s after 4 a.m. I will just scoop him up and snuggle for a bit. He didn’t make my made-up cutoff.
I rock him. I sing to him. I reassure him he’s ok in his bed. Slowly I make our way closer to his pile of plushies and blankets.
“No. Mama. No. I sleep with you!” He continues his lament. My heart aches to cave. But we’ve already started. He’s in his bed.
“Mama tuck you in. Want another song? Which one do you think?” No answer. I sigh and pick rock-a-bye-baby. I don’t like the ending to that one. But it’s the first song that entered my sleepy brain. His eyes get heavy and close. I know he’s still alert though. I rub his face.
“Don’t go mama”
I sing one verse of the ants go marching. Then I kneel down next to his bed. Settling in. I’ll have to wait until his breathing slows and his eyes stay closed.
Every few seconds they flutter open. Checking in. The check-ins begin to spread out.
I sit there watching his face. My own eyes heavy. They keep shutting. But I know. I must wait. I sit until the breathing slows and eyes stay closed.
Back in my own bed, I keep hearing “mama” In my head. And my tired mind wanders to the children in Texas. The tender aged ones especially. Who are waking up scared and thirsty and seeking the comfort of their mama’s arms. And they’re not allowed. The caregivers aren’t even allowed to hug them.
Tossing and turning I finally fell back asleep. It was restless and sweaty with some nightmare where I was trying to escape some unknown villain.
Pat pat pat. I am jarred awake, yet again. I pull my eye mask off, for the second time in hours. A taller form hovers over my bed. My seven year old. The sun beams around the curtains.
“Mommy? I had a nightmare.”
Silently, I scooch over and pat the outside of the bed. I catch a glimpse of a small smile that spreads across his cheeks. His mind is settling. He has me. He crawls in, and buries his face in my pillow, inches from my head. I wrap my blankets around him and bring my hand to his head. I run my fingers against the grain of his freshly buzzed scalp. I like the scratchiness of that.
Again, my mind wanders back to the mothers whose children are being held in tent cities in hundred degree heat. I bet some of those mothers like how it feels when they run their fingers through their child’s freshly buzzed hair. I bet their seven year olds would still seek their comfort when they have a nightmare. Except now they are all living a nightmare and cannot manage to get into each other’s arms. Because, the American Government has separated them.
I feel blessed and heartbroken. I get to comfort my boys when their sleep is disrupted. The children at the border, their whole world has been uprooted and changed and disrupted and the very simple act of laying in their parent’s arms has been stolen from them too.
I work for a refugee organization. I have been there for over a year now and it is the greatest pride of my life. The thing is, no parent would choose to uproot their family and flee across hundreds and thousands of miles to an unknown future, unless the place they were living was absolutely terrible and unsafe. The idea of making that arduous journey while not knowing where exactly you may end up, is a beacon of hope compared to the circumstances that triggered the need to flee.
There is no luxury of planning this trip. There is no Traveolicity for refugees. They don’t have the option of seeking asylum from the comfort of their home, sitting on their Crate and Barrel couch with their laptop on their lap. That is not the situation. They are trying, with all their might, to save their children’s lives.
That is how these families end up here. That is why these families end up here. They seek safety and a better life for their children. I dare anyone who has children and thinks separating parents and children is acceptable, to consider that. Consider what you would do if your choices were, watching your children suffer or fleeing to a country that used to plea, give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
I challenge you to consider. I challenge you to empathize. I challenge you to care. I challenge you to imagine how it would feel if you couldn’t comfort your babies when they cry in the dark.
Nicole M. VandeBoom 