Motherhood has changed the fear, lessened it in some ways and changed it in others. I will be remembered (and realized I likely would have been anyway), and in a sweeter and deeper way than I could possibly hope to achieve by publishing my grand opus or scoring global name recognition. Unlike Lady Gaga, I’m not doing it for the fame (anymore).
The fear retreats when I look into my sweet boy’s eyes. His looks will change as he grows and he is already so much himself but when you look at him you can see me too. The spark of unbridled joy that still lights his eyes when I walk into a room reassures me that no, this child will never forget me. And then the fear rears up again, wrapping around me with whispers and what-ifs, painful possibilities that I could leave the world before I’ve given him everything I have to offer.
My fear of being forgotten is just another method of control. After all, I will be gone. It won’t affect me in the slightest when eventually my birthday goes by unacknowledged and my name becomes just another on a sprawling family tree. And in the long run, there are certainly more important things that I hope will stay alive in memory. So, I try to give up the control and live in faith. God has not forgotten me, which means that in the end I have nothing to fear if I remember who is really in control.
Maybe I should write that down and post it on every wall I see, because control is the biggest struggle I face and will be the biggest thing I need to let go in the coming months and years. I hope my fear goes with it.