a true story about big feelings
The Little Red Eye
She won't close her eyes, because closing them means the little red light on the ceiling can look back.
the realization
I kept telling her it was just the smoke detector, keeping her safe. It wasn't until I stopped talking and lay down where she lay that I got it: from down there, it really does look like it's watching. She didn't need my facts. She needed me to see what she saw.
Every night the same thing. She'd lie down, then pop back up, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. She wouldn't close them. And I couldn't figure out why until I followed her gaze to that tiny red dot on the smoke detector, blinking away in the dark.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did the reasonable-mom thing. It's just the detector, honey. It keeps us safe. It can't hurt you. I said it in my calm voice, the one that's supposed to make everything fine. And she only got smaller under the blanket. The more I explained, the tighter she curled.
So I stopped. I climbed up onto that little bed, squeezed in beside her, and laid my head down where hers was. And I looked up. Right at it. And oh. From down here it doesn't look like a safety thing. It looks like an eye. Open all night. Never blinking, never looking away.
I didn't have a fix. I just said what was true. It really does look like that from here. Like it never stops watching you. She turned and looked at me, and I felt her shoulders come down on their own. She closed her eyes. The little red light still blinking up there. Just not alone anymore.
what I found myself saying
"Come here, show me. What does it look like from your pillow?"
"You're right. From down here it does look like it's watching."
"It stays on all night. But so am I. I'm right here."
