At Least One of Us Is Growing Up

Yesterday - or was it forever ago? - it seemed like I spent my days comforting kids. Toddlers falling, babies needing to be held, preschoolers wanting their way, someone constantly needed cuddles and soothing words. Some days it was pretty damn exhausting. Some days I probably wasn't quite as comforting as I could have been.

How was I to know that only a few years later I'd watch my daughter get hit the face with an iceball and not comfort her?

I wanted to go to her. I wanted to hug her and comfort her. I wanted to yell at the boy who (admittedly accidentally) threw the iceball at her face. But instead I just watched her. I watched her tear up, cover her face with her hand and turn away from the crowd for a few minutes. I watched her not look to me, or to anyone else, while she calmed herself down. 

I repeated, "She knows where I am, she knows where I am if she needs me,," over and over to myself. Except that I must have started to say it out loud, because the mom next to me said, "She looks like she wants to handle it herself." I nodded. 

I knew that she did. Her body language, the way she's been dying to do things for herself lately, her embarrassment that her parents actually remain on the playground with her, all taught me that running through the snow in my clogs to give her a hug would not have been a comfort to anyone but me. 

A few minutes later - after throwing some iceballs at the boy - she finally looked at me. I asked her if she was okay. She nodded and went back to her game. Later, because I felt bad for not rushing to my child's side, I asked her if it was okay that I didn't run to her side when she was hurt. "Mom, it just stung. I was fine. It would have been embarrassing if you'd run to me. Sheesh." 

Ironflower was 14 months old the first time I realized how big an impact my reactions had on her. I was 8 months pregnant with Lovebug and Ironflower was cruising around the living room. She managed to bang her head on the side corner of the coffee table (the part not covered with bumpers, of course) and started to cry. I scooped her up and soothed her calmly, until I saw the huge bump on her head. Then I started to cry, because hormones and injured toddlers are a bad combination. Of course, when I started crying, Ironflower stopped calming down and started wailing louder and louder. It was a fun night, let me tell ya. 

Since then, I have managed to keep my emotions/hormones/reactions in check no matter what the injury. So much so that local moms describe me as calm. Too bad they don't give out Golden Globes for faking it; I would so love to meet Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. But it's one thing to fake it as I hold  my kiddo up close and see that the injury isn't so bad, it's another when I'm watching from afar. It's another when my kid doesn't even look at me for a reaction. 

I mean, part of me thinks it's great. It's great that she can calm herself down; that she can assess her own injury level. It's great that she's so independent. Really. But all those times I daydreamed about having independent, capable kids? I didn't realize that meant I'd have to just stand there and watch them get hurt sometimes. 

I'm going to be a fucking mess when all the middle school drama starts, aren't I?