I am the Mom

We ended up in the Emergency Room yesterday.

My daughter is not yet two, and she has had the same ever-loving cough for a quarter of her life. And sure, it's the weather and it's the daycare and it's all the things. But still. 6 months is too long.

I brought her to the pediatrician first thing in the morning, expecting the usual 20-minute visit; to leave with a new prescription and crossed fingers. I didn't even think to eat breakfast before we left the house.

We waited a long time for her oxygen to get up to the usual healthy range, but it never did. The nurse listened to her lungs, then the doctor, then another doctor. We did two albuterol treatments, neither of which helped. Her levels remained low; her breathing fast and labored.

Still, I didn't expect it when the pediatrician instructed me to take her directly to the hospital. My eyes filled with tears, despite myself.

I don't know how to do this.

I didn't pack enough food to get her through lunch.

Shouldn't my mom be here?

They were waiting for us at the E.R. We skipped the queue of sickly-looking patients in the waiting room and were taken immediately back to triage. I removed Scarlett's shirt as half a dozen scrub-clad professionals swarmed the room, hooking up monitors and taking her vitals.

Amidst the commotion, a gray-haired woman with eyeglasses fastened to a chain of pearls at the base of her neck was jotting notes on a clipboard in an attempt to collect our intake information.

"Any known allergies, Mom?"

When I didn't answer, she repeated herself a bit louder, "Mom?"

Oh yeah. I am the mom.

Then why am I also the one trying my best not to cry? I don't feel grown up enough for this. I don't know how to be the parent in a crisis.

"Not that I know of, no," I croak, rubbing my baby's back as she screams. She looks at me with a blotchy face and betrayal in her eyes, as if to say, why are you letting them do this to me?

Scarlett is hysterical by the time they begin yet another breathing treatment. She hates the suffocating feel of the mask on her face, and I understand—I would too.

So I crawl up onto the gurney, situating her in my lap. Even as it breaks my heart, I hold the mask tightly against her nose and mouth. She can't understand that it is the best thing for her.

She hollers and squirms, and I do not let go—of the mask, or her little hand in mine. I let the long-held tears finally fall because damn, I hate this too. And I sing her the song that my mom always sang to me:

I'll love you forever.

I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living,

my baby you'll be.

And as I sing, I think, maybe my mom didn't know what she was doing either. Maybe she cried the first time something scary happened to me. And maybe that didn't make her any less strong.

I repeat the chorus over and over and over again, until finally, my baby's head rests softly on my chest. Her muscles relax. She looks back at me with crocodile tears in her bright, beautiful eyes, and takes a deep breath. And I know that she trusts me. I know that she believes I will do what is best for her.

Because I am the mom.

I am her mom.