As some of you know, I have lived through every mother’s greatest fear. On June 2nd, I lost my youngest son in a horrible car accident. I was the one driving.
We had just left the gas station and as always I checked each buckle before heading out on the winding mountain road toward my family’s home. My little boy was famous for wriggling out of his seatbelt no matter what we tried. He would grin and say, “The Flash doesn’t wear a seatbelt, and I’m the Flash, Mama.” We tried five point harness seats, boosters, and just about every trick to keep him strapped in. To him it was a superhero challenge, and like a true superhero, he always won. Most days I would pull over three or four times just to make him buckle up again.
That day, only five minutes into the drive, a large rock rolled into my lane. I had three choices. Straddle the rock, cross the double yellow line into oncoming traffic with a river just beyond, or hit the rock. I chose the rock. I chose wrong. And yes, he had already unbuckled, along with his older brother. They were switching seats, and I didn’t know. The rock struck our axle and sent the van tumbling down the cliff. Our 13 passenger van rolled, and my son’s life was gone in an instant.
I remember being crushed between the console and the weight of the van. Blood everywhere. I fought to stay awake until I blacked out. When I opened my eyes, I was unbuckling my baby girl who was hanging upside down. One by one I pulled my children out of the wreckage. When I reached Titus, I tried with everything inside me to lift that heavy van off his tiny body. My eight year old was right beside me trying to help. I could only see the lower half of Titus. I rubbed his little tummy, whispered to him, tried gentle compressions, but I already knew. He was gone. The only comfort I have is knowing it was instantaneous and he felt no pain.
The rest is a blur. I refused medical help until they let me hold my son. I held him in the middle of that highway, rocking him and screaming, begging God to bring him back. Later I was airlifted, sedated, and when I finally woke, I saw the news report online. They spoke of my baby’s death like it was a passing weather update. Cold. Distant. And the comments… cruel strangers tearing me apart, calling me a terrible mother, saying I deserved it. They will never know how hard I fought for him, how close we were, how many times I pulled over just to buckle him back in. They will never know our special goodnight kiss, our McDonald’s dates, the Lego ships he built me, the naps he took in my bed while holding my hand with his soft, dimpled fingers.
I share this because I long to look every mama in the eyes and say one thing. Hold your babies tight. That is all I want to shout to the world.
I am not the same person I once was. Death changes you in ways you cannot explain. I have chosen a burial plot for my four year old. I have bought a superhero costume for him to wear forever. I have kissed his cold little face over and over. I have talked to the dirt where he lies, hoping somehow he can still hear me.
If you are still reading this, thank you. Please take these words with you and share them with other mamas.
Maybe finishing all the broccoli at dinner is not as important as we think. Watch how your child eats. Laugh at their stubborn hatred of corn. Let them have the ice cream sometimes.
Play pretend with them. Let them believe they are Captain America or Queen Elsa. Join their world. The dishes can wait.
Take every hug and kiss they offer you, even the tenth one at bedtime when you know they just want to stay up a little longer.
Stop and look at the bugs, the rocks, the sunset. Slow down, mama. Slow down.
Tell them you love them, but say it with your eyes. Tell them they can do anything.
Offer grace when you can. Sometimes it matters more than being strict.
And above all, never judge another mama. You do not know her story. You do not know what she is carrying.
So go hug your babies right now. Inhale their smell. Memorize the sparkle in their eyes. Feel the squeeze of their little arms around your neck. Set down your phone and see them with your heart, not just through a camera lens.
Nurse them one more time. Listen to one more story about Star Wars or Minecraft. Let their sleepy head rest on your shoulder.
Mamas, hold your children tight. You are so deeply blessed to have been entrusted with such beautiful, fleeting, extraordinary little humans.