Tie One On
On delegating my feral parenting instincts to a single red ribbon
If I had to use one word to describe my parenting style it would be “feral.”
For when it comes to protecting my children, I am as untamed as they come, my ferocity knowing no boundaries or rules.
My motherly powers have shown both in the strength of my pen and my voice, as well as in the kind of miraculous adrenaline-fueled superpowers one might hear about on the news, like the time I literally threw my then-five-year-old son over a fence into the arms of a stranger with decisive force when my family got caught in a dangerous mob at a New Years Eve celebration gone wrong in Dubai. From that horrific day on, I have never doubted my ability to protect my children.
Feral indeed. I guess my love language is action.
But after leaving an extension of my heartbeat in New York City last month, I’ve delegated much of my job as protector of this human to a thin red ribbon, now tied onto the wire spring beneath my daughter’s dorm room bed.
For centuries, neurotic Jewish mothers and grandmothers have tied red ribbons onto babies’ cribs to ward off the evil eye and neutralize negative energy. In my family, the tradition has extended far past the infant years.
I descend from a long line of worrier-warriors. Our brand is not that of those who worry in silence or complain endlessly. We are action takers, we are the ones who sweep in, protect and fight. Parenting sweat equity perhaps.
Eighteen years ago, while I lay in the hospital bed, oblivious to the delivery trauma that had just launched my child into this world and how very close I had been to death in that moment, my mother scurried to set up the baby’s room at home.
Carrying a spool of red ribbon and a pair of long shears, my mom went around the house tying red ribbons in obscured places to keep the demons at bay. Each one was tied at well-considered places of potential danger, like a changing table where the baby could roll off if an exhausted parent lost their focus; or a crib where her tiny body could get caught in the slats or a mysterious illness could come for her in the middle of the nights; or the glider chair where I would nurse her to bring safety to us both.
They were tiny threads of love, tucked out of sight but working their magic constantly.
Last month, as we packed up the duffels and the suitcases for this now college-aged baby, I kept wondering how we would fit it all in, how all her belongings would fit in a tiny rectangle in a high rise on a minute slice of Manhattan. Where would her hoodies go? Her jackets? How would we fit all the makeup? And the many dresses packed just in case?
And where will my love go?
Where, in this tiny rectangle in a high rise on a minute slice of Manhattan, will my love fit?
Amid packing the space maximizing hangers, the under bed storage, the curated selection of seasonal clothing and just the right amount of toiletries, I worried for days about how to pack just the right thing to leave behind so that my daughter would know I was there with her. Where do you squeeze the love in? Will your advice fit in the tiny going out purse to guide her in that moment when inevitably life changing decisions are made at 1am? Can you pack up a hug? Can you take a photo of unconditional love to hang on the wall?
For a time, the college packing to-do list seemed to get longer rather than shorter and then, suddenly, it was, basically, done. How could that be? When I feel so much anxiety, when I so badly need something to do to channel my love, how could it be done?
And so I added more things to the list. The list that, when your love language is action, never actually gets completed because that would mean you’ve stopped loving and that would be impossible. Impossible when this being is an extension of my very breath.
Eventually it came to me. A red ribbon.
Maybe my love can no longer be wild and feral. Maybe my love needs to be confident and slow, intentional when it speaks up. Yes — my love will be a soft-spoken red ribbon, discreet and confident, emanating its protection without demonstration of force.
Once I tucked that ribbon and the shears into the duffel’s side pocket, the high-pitched quake of my anxious belly finally quieted.
Bizarrely, I felt better, and though the goodbye was indeed teary, I felt I’d done my job and was confident she would be safe, happy – thriving even.
But then, after I deplaned home in San Francisco, my inner critic began shouting obscenities at me for ever agreeing to send this child off to school so far away. The ribbon, I told the nagging voice. I did the ribbon! She is fine. Protected.
It was that exact moment that I realized that I forgot to tie it to the bed.
And now she’s there! No me! No ribbon! Who/what will protect her?
A continent away, my feral love resisted the urge to buy a plane ticket and head straight back to New York to tie that ribbon on. I held back and made my way to baggage claim, hoping as my baby sleeps in that tiny rectangle, in a highrise on a minute slice of Manhattan, that she can feel my love. I packed it in those bags. I swear I did. I packed those bags with so much love it should ooze.
Later that week, I texted my daughter with gentle but urgent words – she should not know that she is unprotected. I cannot project my worry onto her.
“Honey, I need a favor...”
Superstitions and traditions are there. Your portrayal of the red ribbon was on target. And of course, I’m glad there’s one protecting her on the bed!
As usual, an amazing piece of writing. But this one really got to me. As one of the grandfathers, I would have gone to New York and tied the ribbon on myself!