A cry in the dark

Did you ever see this movie? A Cry in the Dark? The one starring Meryl Streep as the distraught mother of a baby who is taken by dingoes in the Australian Outback while the family is camping?

I saw it in Paris, of all places, with my very funny and good friend, Bronwyn, who was, coincidentally, born and raised, for a while anyway, in Australia.

It was a drizzly gray day and we were sick of the French and their language and their attitude. We needed a few hours away, surrounded by English, even if it happened to be spoken in that crazy Aussie accent, with French subtitles running below.

The famous takeaway line from the movie is, of course, “the dingo ate my baby.” And Bronwyn had the accent down perfectly, being Aussie born and all. This phrase was uttered often during the remaining weeks of trip, and always received laughs. Hell, even Elaine dons an Australian accent and proclaims, “Maybe the dingo ate your baby!” in an episode of Seinfeld.

But really, when you think about the fact that the movie was based on a true story, you have to wonder just how awful that would be. Your baby girl taken off in the night by wild dogs? It’s unthinkable, really.

Today, anyway.

But going back 1,000, 500, or even 100 years, infant mortality was commonplace. It was a fact of life. Perhaps not at the jaws of dingoes in large part, but frequent nonetheless.

Mothers, however, were (and continue to be) wired to prevent this. It’s in our genes to procreate, then to protect and provide for our babies.

It’s instinct. And instinct dies hard.

So I find myself, once more, sleeping lightly, listening for that cry in the dark.

Do you remember it? All you mamas out there? Do you remember the cry in the dark?

What about the ever annoying phantom cry?

I know you do. I know you remember it.

The phantom cry; was it the baby? Or just your imagination? You don’t want to get up -- you’re comfortable, you’re warm, but is it the baby you’re hearing? Is that why you awoke? Does she need you? Are the dingoes at the door?

I’m plagued by the phantom cry lately. And discerning the real from the shadowy chimera is made all the more difficult by the fact that my husband insists prefers to sleep with the ceiling fan on.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, woosh, woosh, waaa?, woosh.

Was that the baby?

It doesn’t really matter, once you hear it. Once you hear it, or think you hear it, you’re awake. Wide awake.

And once you’re wide awake, you might as well haul your weary ass out of bed, walk down the hall, and gingerly open that door. Just to make sure.

Nope, no dingoes at my door tonight.