I used to dream of a little girl; A little girl, her brown eyes large with wonder and tiny fingers sticky with unmitigated curiosity. It never occurred to me whether she would be of my body, carrying my blood, my strengths and my deficiencies. She was simply a child whose hand permanently fit mine. As the plans of a young woman have become the reality of my today, I have seen her less as being of me and more as being of the world. I look for her here, in Greece, in the eyes of the little boy who frequently sticks out his tongue at me or in the touch of the young girl who ties a homemade bracelet on my wrist. I wonder is she near, perhaps in one of the camps, alone and wandering between tents. Is she currently waiting on the shores of Turkey, her hand reaching to grip another who is no longer there? Is she lost at sea, is she waiting for me to stand up, to speak up, to do something, to do anything?
Even so, doubts creep in. Would her small arms circling my neck serve as a tiny albatross anchoring me to a life of suffocating convention? Would I give her everything in my power at the expense of others, unaware of the world around us in my quest to care for her? Would I forget to love others or myself, obsessed only in loving her, or would I come to resent her, for always being more important than me?
I am incapable. I cannot protect her. I cannot assure her of good health. I cannot shield her from or cure her of loneliness and depression. I cannot guarantee an ever present father. Hearts change and love is unpredictable. I cannot say that should she belong to another, she will not be taken and traded over and over until our hearts are broken so small that we cannot find the pieces. This is foster care. I cannot protect her from rising seas, stronger storms, polluted air and poisoned water. I cannot promise that I will be next to her, able to step in front for a bullet shot by another lost child. I cannot shield her from hate, from the pain of being different. I cannot stop bombs. I cannot say that should we be in danger, we can cross a man made border without her being torn from my arms. Her only recourse being to cry alone late into the night with just an emergency blanket for comfort. I cannot tell her that God is good when his word is so often used to justify acts of cruelty, greed, bigotry and hate. I cannot even guarantee that I will always be with her. I can only say that I would love her until the end of all I know.
And so I return to my original question. Why am I not a Mother?
I am not brave.
