There is No Bandaid

Sometimes Mommy can't make it all better.
Not like the days when my little girl scraped a knee andCame to me, breath shuddering, face wet,Wanting only to be held against the breastShe'd suckled from two years before.
Those days I'd scoop her up and rock herUntil she'd calm and let me clean the wound,Apply a bandaid topped off with aWhisper and a kiss.
Twenty years later it's not the knee that has been scraped,But thoughts intruding over and over,Attacking her shell of self-esteem,Cracking the enamel of her soul.
What if I fail? What if I'm not ready?What if no one understands me? What if I can't handle it?
I'm not good enough, I'm not good enough, I'm not good enough.
These are not normal fears and doubts,They are the more obsessive kindThat haunt her nights, besiege her mind.
I take her in my arms and waitFor breath to calm and tongue to still,A signal she is safe again and able toControl her will...for now.
I can whisper,I can kiss,
But there is no bandaid for this.