My worst nightmare

I didn't sleep much last night. Well I take that back, I slept fine until Claire's cry jolted me awake. She is a good sleeper. She rarely wakes up during the night unless she is sick, but since we just took her pacifier away, I thought she might be having withdrawals. In the groggy half-sleeping state I was in, I contemplated rolling over and letting her cry it out. Then her crying abruptly stopped. I waited, listening. Nothing. I closed my eyes, intent on returning to my slumber. But for reasons bigger than me, I got out of bed, stumbled through the silence to peek in on her first.

As I opened her door I had to stifle a scream. Claire was hanging from her bed rail. The very rail Mark built to keep her safe was choking her.

The rail itself is safe. It is wooden and is built into the side of her bunk bed. It rises about 3 inches higher than her mattress, blocking a middle of the night roll that would send her tumbling to the ground. It consists of a large horizontal rod, with a number of vertical rods attached and then drilled into the bed frame. The vertical rods are spaced far enough apart that a head could not get stuck, and before we moved Claire into the big girl bed, I made sure she could wiggle her way from her mattress under the rail if she tried (her mattress has a memory foam topper that smashes down considerably). She could and did over and over, so the fear of her getting stuck was pushed from my mind. Until I stepped into her room last night.

The rail itself wasn't the problem. I can only assume after she had woken up and cried out, that she had tried to get out of bed by squeezing under the rail. Usually, not a big deal. But when sliding off she slid one arm under the mattress (perhaps to brace herself) and that arm had gotten stuck. Then I think in an attempt to wiggle the arm free, she tried scooting the rest of the way off the bed, only to get her foot caught in the handle of the drawers that slide under the bunk bed. At that point all she could do was try to pry her neck free from the rail, which had begun to choke her, with her free hand (I believe that is when I heard her stop crying abruptly). That is what I found her doing. Clawing at the rail.

I immediately scooped her up, flipped the light on and, with my eyes clouded with tears, began checking every inch of her body. She was breathing fine. She was not turning blue. She had a small red mark on her neck where the rail had been. That aside, she was fine. Perfectly fine. She was not even crying. She laid her head on my chest and closed her eyes. I knew I should put her back to bed, but I didn't want to let go of her. But then she asked to get back in bed, so I reluctantly obliged. But not before securing the rail openings with every last pillow in the house.

I returned to my bed wide awake. For obvious reasons, sleep was eluding me. The what-ifs were taking over and the tears had turned to sobs. What if I had just rolled over and gone back to sleep? What if I would have made the decision to check on her a few minutes later? What if I would not have heard her cry out at all? What if? What if? What if? My whole body was heaving. I was shaking uncontrollably. I regained my composure enough to go peek in on Cora and then tip toe to Claire's room, where I stood for about half an hour watching her sleep.

She was beautiful. The bedroom door was cracked a bit where I stood and the hall light seeped in, illuminating her blond hair. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked perfect. She is perfect. Her existence in our family brings endless joy. She is so bubbly that you can't help but smile when you are near her. She is constantly making people laugh. She is a gift. And one that I rarely treasure enough.

What if that gift were to be ripped from me? What if I had to give her back? What if? What if? What if?

I did not call Mark last night. Had he known, he would have rushed home from work to share in the grief of the "what ifs." He would have said and done all the right things. But I did not pick up the phone. Because Claire is his baby. She has migrated to him from birth and I did not want him to even experience an ounce of the grief that the thought of losing her would cause. That was a burden I could carry alone for one night.

And now, here I sit. I can't shake the image of her dangling there from my thoughts. She has woken up to another beautiful day, unaware of the magnitude of the situation. I am appreciative beyond words. The last few posts have ironically been all about Claire, a tribute almost. The fact that I have an opportunity to write many more posts about her makes my gratitude know no bounds.

I will squeeze her a little tighter. I will hold my tongue when the yogurt she is eating "like big girls" oozes past her bib and invades clean pants territory. I will let her smash a second helping of chips into her mouth, pretending not to see. I will push her on the swing for the 4th "last" time, because I can. Because, for whatever reason, this scatterbrained, impatient, mostly pessimistic woman is somehow worthy of being a mother to a miraculous, independent, remarkable two-year-old. I will not take that for granted.