“Climb into Mommy’s pouch,” two-year-old Max yells. I can feel
the vibrations in the asphalt through my running shoes as two F-15s thunder
across the blue sky. It’s not life threatening: it’s San Francisco Fleet Week.
I took Max here because he loves airplanes and acrobatics.
“Sound, sound,” he calls and wants me to stop it. He climbs under
my t-shirt, as if he won’t be able to hear the planes if he can’t see them.
“I’m in Mommy’s pouch,” he calls. The planes come by again and I clap my hands
over his ears on top of the fabric of my t-shirt, knowing how useless the
gesture is. Even if he weren’t so afraid I would be covering his ears, worried
for his hearing.
The street is packed with people — sailors off their ships for
the occasion, tourists caught up in the excitement, and even a few locals like
me — all drawn to the Fisherman’s Wharf area of San Francisco for the party.
There is the Navy brass band, all the regular tourist stuff, and the stunt
airplanes. A million people are watching the Blue Angels today. Forget about
parking or even driving down Embarcadero Road this weekend. We took the ferry
from Oakland and are trapped here until the next ferry leaves.
I lift Max up and out of my shirt, hoping I am not flashing some
rowdy sailors in the process.
I walk as fast as I can, my back aching, looking for a quiet
restaurant away from the waterfront and sailors and tourists, the energy of
Fleet Week. I am looking for peace —urgently as if there were a way to will it
into being, and as if I had the power to do so. But the planes make another
pass, and he whimpers and grabs hold of me as tightly as he can. I kiss his
head through my jacket and tell him it’s okay even though I know he can’t hear
me. I hope he can sense the calm in my voice and my breathing even if he
doesn’t catch the words. It’s hard to keep my breathing calm while carrying 42
pounds and running, but I think yoga thoughts and promise my body more oxygen
later.
I think of mothers in Afghanistan who cannot comfort their
children this way, because that danger is real. The planes hurt or kill them.
All those mothers can do is hold their children tight and hope that their own
frail bodies will keep their children safe.
But I’m in San Francisco and we do find shelter. We stop at
Original Joe’s. Downstairs it looks like a restaurant, but when I struggle
upstairs, it’s clearly a bar. With the music blaring there is no worry that
he’ll hear the planes, although I’m concerned about his hearing again.
Just as I let out my breath, he says, “Mommy keeps me safe.” I
tousle his light brown hair and say “yes” even though I know that’s a huge
burden that I can’t help but fail at one day. Again, I think of the mothers who
can’t keep their children safe from thundering planes and I lean down and kiss
the top of his head and breathe in his little boy smell.
Together we eat the banana before the ice cream. It’s my parental
reflex to get some real food into him before the sugar hits. I marvel that he
knows the exact second he is full. He drops the spoon and loses all interest.
I, in my adult wisdom, eat more than I should, while he names each type of
plastic fish caught in the net strung from the ceiling of the bar.
I watch the planes shooting by the window. He can see them, but
he doesn’t care and is fascinated by tearing his napkin to shreds and flying
the pieces through the sky. I want to remember his Max-ness, his amazement and
his real fear… his belief that I can make things right, that things can be made
right.
Eventually we head back to the ferry building. We’re both one day
older. He learned to identify an F-15 and that he’s safe with his mother. I
learned how blessed I am, a mother who can protect her son because all he has
to fear is the noise. I think of other mothers in Afghanistan know that the
noise is the least of the danger. I squeeze Max’s hand. Those planes are
frightening even when there’s nothing to fear.