My hand fumbles in the darkness. Ring.
“Darn, what did the kids do with the phone?” Ring.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake the whole house is going to wake up.” Rin…
Finally!
“Hello?” I gasp.
Most people dread the call that comes in the middle of the night, the sleep-shattering ring that ignites every secret fear that life as you know it will end. Me? I expect it. I’m a journalist.
Take the night Saddam Hussein was captured, and my phone rang at 4:30 a.m. during Christmas-party season. Or the 3:30 a.m. call the night police in the U.K. uncovered a terror plot to blow up U.S. planes over the Atlantic. “Flying from NY is safe,” said the voice on the line, “coming home could be the problem.”
Most recently it was 12:10 a.m.— a call that 49 people had tragically died in a plane crash minutes from landing in Buffalo. I went into high gear, stuffing my thermal clothes into a travel bag along with a toothbrush and quart-size-Ziploc of guilt. I kissed my deliciously warm kids and left notes with hearts and kisses and smiles.
Then my team and I drove all night— the start of a 22-hour day. Working, traveling and raising kids can be challenging at the best of times. There’s always guilt. Will they be OK? What am I missing? How do I make it up to them? I sometimes feel I’m hurtling down a ski-jump, blindfolded.
It’s at those moments I have to have faith the system I’ve put in place will work and accept that, yes, it does “take a village.” My husband and I are extremely lucky to have a nanny who gives the kids predictability when our schedules take us all over the globe— even if it’s a 24-hour trip.
My entire life is coordinated by cell phone. I can’t imagine how moms did it before and firmly believe cell-phone inventors should get a special place in heaven. I’ve ordered school uniforms, birthday cakes, air-conditioners—all on the way to a story. I’ve participated in routine doctor’s appointments from thousands of miles away. And when my kids call—even if it’s 10 times in as many minutes—I take the calls. I don’t explain. I don’t apologize. I excuse myself citing “incoming business.” I’ve tracked down swim-goggles, crocs and mediated kid disputes, all via cell. A very smart person told me what’s most important for children is that they know you are present and accessible— even if you are not in the same room. Still, I desperately miss my girls when I’m away. So why do I do it? I recently returned from an assignment, which included flying along the U.S.- Mexico border in a Coast Guard helicopter.
I raced cross-town to pick up my eldest daughter from a birthday party. She fell asleep during the short taxi ride home. When she woke the meltdown was instantaneous, like a brush fire moving quickly through the lobby, up the elevator and into the apartment.
Because I’d pinky-sweared my younger child we’d see “Monsters vs. Aliens” at 8 p.m. (guilt long-hours = over-compensation), I couldn’t stay home long. My tear-soaked daughter followed us to the elevator, asking,“Do you even think of me when you’re away?” Calmly, I got down on one knee. “Honey, do you know why I do so many exciting things and fly in helicopters and meet new people?” “Why?” she said, anger in her eyes. “I do it to show you that you too can do anything you want when you grow up. You can fly in helicopters, or scuba-dive or sing. Whatever makes you most happy, my angel.”
With that her whole body seemed to unclench and the fierceness drained away. She grabbed me around my waist, the angry tears melting into tears of joy and relief. “Oh Mommy, I love you so, so much!” We stayed that way for a few minutes—my beautiful girl and I holding each other tightly until our tears ran out. She now understands in words what she has never doubted in her heart. I am always present, always there for her, always loving her. Always.
Deb Feyerick is an award-winning CNN journalist who specializes in crime and terrorism. This essay was originally published on NYC Moms Blog. Read more of Feyerick’s work at svmomblog.typepad.com/nyc_moms.
