I was awakened just after 6 a.m. by a ringing phone. I heard Darling Hubby in the distance say “hello” and then nothing.

I staggered into the hall and asked him, “Who was it?” thinking, “Who died?” I have a healthy distrust of calls that come in too late or too early; it’s never anyone calling to invite the family for an all-expense paid week at Disney World.

It was an automated call from our school district. Apparently there had been an attempted forcible abduction of a 13-year old girl at her school bust stop in the next district. The message was designed to alert parents and encourage increased vigilance.

Darling Hubby relayed the message to me and then said very rationally and matter of factly, “Ok, I’m off to work. Have a good day. I love you. Kiss my girls for me.”

I stumbled back down the hall and into a hot shower whereupon I began to cry. Hot angry tears of frustration and powerlessness poured out of me while the water poured over me. I was crying for the girl, for her parents and for me, a mom her in near-Stepford, the mom of two daughters.

This message comes on the heels of recent messages of swine flu in our district and our own family’s bout with an unpleasant bug for about two weeks. I read this week about the number of children who had died this year from the flu as I watched both girls’ fevers spike and then, thankfully subside. While home with the girls during their illnesses, I received an unhealthy barrage of stories on the news and daytime television of children who vanished, were taken, beaten, broken and otherwise mistreated.

There are innumerable things I love about being a mom. There are a few things I hate. One of the things I hate most is the powerlessness. As a mom, you want with every ounce of your being to keep your children happy, healthy and safe (and occasionally quiet and well-behaved). You buy car seats, outlet covers, organic soy milk and hand sanitizer by the gallon. You lecture on hand-washing, sneezing into elbows, seat belt usage, stranger danger and the dangers of people who you think you know but who may harbor a necrotic secret.

But for all you do, you cannot guarantee your children a happy, healthy, safe life. You can only do your best and hope for the best and cry in the shower when you fear that your best may not be good enough. It is an awful feeling – the powerlessness. Some days homeschooling them while they sit wrapped in bubble wrap away from too much sunlight in an air-filtered shelter seems like a perfectly reasonable solution. It would make me feel better anyway.

If only it were about making me feel better.

The girls did not go to their bus stop this morning. I used the rain and my tardiness as an excuse. I dropped them at the school house door, reminded them to use their hand sanitizer and tissues, cheerily told them I loved them and sent them on their way.

And I only looked longingly at the bubble wrap for a minute on our way out the door.