My Children!

(*An essay written by my mother, Maren Noble, for one of her Pathway program classes. I'm sharing this in honor of her birthday today. Love you, Mom!)

My Children!

“My Children!” Eleni shouts bravely to the heavens, eyes blindfolded, fists clenched, arms raised high in defiance. Boom! A single shot is fired and she falls to the ground. She has betrayed the Communist insurgents, who overtook her tiny mountainous village, by helping her children escape to America. My own six children all know that “Eleni,” by Nicholas Gage, is my favorite book. I love a true story, especially when it includes a strong but loving woman who is willing to risk it all. If my “mama bear” shows up, I jokingly exclaim, “My Children!”  

I like to think that I would do anything for my children, but most of a mother’s work is not so dramatic. That a mom makes sure homework is done, piano is practiced, and Christmas happens is not the stuff of legend. Yet, because of Mom, Sunday evenings smell like roast, first days of school have pictures, and first dates have a listening ear. Everyone depends on mom to take care of the details. But sometimes a mom longs to be a real hero. Last October I came close. 

Our family decided to experience the city of Chicago that my son Dane served in for two years. I had planned this trip carefully, budgeting our meager allotments of time, money, and energy. On day one, our first stop was Millennial Park, to see “The Bean,” an architectural oddity made of stainless steel and shaped like a bean. We rushed onto the platform leading to the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA) to get there. Swarms of people came out of nowhere. All I could see was the backs of heads, each looking like a different colored scale on what felt like a giant serpent moving singularly up the metal mesh staircase. Fear seized me. Where were my children’s heads?  So close was my nose to the person in front of me, I had to turn my face to avoid strands of unruly hair tickling my nostrils. As bodies emptied onto another platform, familiar blonde and light brown heads caught my view. “Over here!” Dane yelled. 

“Doors Opening.” a monotone computerized voice announced over a speaker.  One by one, our family members led by Dad, gathered at the doors of the CTA Blue Line. I purposely trailed behind, counting my boarding children to the sound of air pumping pistons and squealing brakes. Dane, Whitney, Joy, Will, and finally, Aurelia. Behind Aurelia was a man I had noticed earlier. He looked eclectically normal for a Chicagoan. He was middle-aged, tall, black, lean and wore a light tan jacket, new fluorescent Nikes and carried a large Garrett gourmet popcorn shopping bag. Why did he seem oddly out of place? I hurried toward the train, keeping my eye on him. Aurelia and the man simultaneously stepped onto the transit. Using that motion as a distraction, the man reached surreptitiously into her purse easily shifting her rose metallic wallet into the chest of his tan jacket. She didn’t budge, didn’t feel a thing. He then slinked nonchalantly off the step and turned the opposite direction, slipping away. He had no idea I saw it. I ran, charging at him. “OH No!”  “OOOH NO!” Grabbing his left arm firmly to turn him around and staring him sternly in the eye, I wagged my finger and held it eye level in motherly authority. “YOU GIVE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW, PLEASE!”  (I don’t’ remember saying please, but the audience that gathered at the doors of the train vouch that I did.) He threw up his arms, cursing me, denying having taken anything. I was still only inches from him, so before the moment could pass, I reached into his light tan jacket and retrieved the priceless cache holding Aurelia’s money and identity, then walked just as smoothly back toward the transit as the thief had slipped away from it. My family stood frozen inside the frame of the CTA doors, speechless and bewildered like an awkward family photo. By now, my husband Paul had made his 330 pound presence known to the man. I thought selfishly, “Don’t EVEN take my glory! I got this wallet back ALL by myself!” Between Paul’s size and the crowd’s stares, the thief knew it was in his best interest to get out of there unobtrusively, and hearing the computerized voice announce, “Doors closing,” we let him. I rushed inside the Blue Line and plopped in a stupor onto the vibrating seat. “I can’t believe what I just saw! That was incredible!” said a young and strong-looking black man wearing a business suit. A pretty Hispanic woman recognizing we were tourists, chimed in, “Oh my gosh! I am so sorry that happened to you in our city! I can’t believe it! That doesn’t normally happen here!” Someone else said we should call the police. “Are you kidding?” I thought, “We got stuff to do and see, and a police station isn’t one of them!”  “Mom, you’re a Super-hero!”  Joy said.  “Mom, thank you SOOO much for saving my wallet!” gushed Aurelia. “What would I have done without my money and ID?” 

Ten minutes later we were back on the city sidewalk, exposed again to the biting wind, on our way to the Bean. Paul messed with my phone map app as my children trotted in front: Dane and Whitney arm in arm, Joy and Will laughing and quoting memes, and Aurelia preparing her camera for photo-ops. Why were they not still bustling about my act of courage? It occurred to me that maybe it’s just not that unusual for them to see me wag my finger, hear me command, “OOH NO,” right the current wrong, and move on.

Later that night, the real hero in me kicked in. No one saw or heard. Kneeling down to pray, I reflected on the day’s events – grateful for our safety, grateful we had fun, grateful to be on this amazing family vacation. With a bit of guilt, I thought of the man who tried to steal Aurelia’s wallet. What was his story? My heart swelled with surprised compassion. I prayed he would be safe and would get the help he needed. He wasn’t my child, but he was someone’s child, and he was God’s child. That felt important to consider. 

These days, my children have all but forgotten my gutsy, heroic stunt, no matter how much I remind them. Oh well. A super-hero doesn’t brag, “Did you see what I did?” and neither should a mother. Besides, tributes of gratitude are more often expressed for simpler things, like a savory Sunday roast, help with homework, and a late-night listening ear. Daily hugs and words of encouragement are gestures that live on. And with all that, I’m still no hero. I need help. If there is something I want my family to remember, it’s that I know how to kneel. “My children” I whisper, pleading to the heavens, eyes closed, fists clasped in petition, arms low in submission.  My children.