I just can't bear it when my little girl gets hurt. Not the little bumps that come with being three, which can be healed by Mommy's magic touch and smile. I mean the kind of boo boo that causes her serene little face to crumple into that heart-wrenching cry that takes her breath away. Only Mommy's arms and boo boo kitty can even begin to soothe this kind of hurt. And I feel her pain and more, because I couldn't prevent it.
That's the hardest part of being a mother. Watching your child suffer. I feel it deep in my stomach, a tingling twinge that just aches to take the pain on myself so she doesn't have to feel it. There's guilt too, but that comes later. In the moment, my brain searches for the soothing words that will help calm her and soothe me too. I whisper it's alright, Mommy's here. And then--in what seems like an eternity for both of us, but really it's only an instant--the pain begins to fade; she loosens her grasp around my neck, looks up at me with her teary blue eyes, and I smile. I'm sure she sees my sadness there; lurking beneath my healing facade lives a boundless empathy for her, for whatever part of her little body or soul that was injured and might still smart.
I put on a brave smile and think of some distraction, something that will turn her attention to happier thoughts. It always works, but I still hurt for her, even after she's climbed down from my arms and moved on, the whole thing behind her. I marvel as she's off, the pain forgotten, as carefree and daring as ever to explore the world. And I struggle through the memory, the guilt of what I could have done differently to better protect my little girl.
How easily children can let go of pain; and what a gift that is.
That's the hardest part of being a mother. Watching your child suffer. I feel it deep in my stomach, a tingling twinge that just aches to take the pain on myself so she doesn't have to feel it. There's guilt too, but that comes later. In the moment, my brain searches for the soothing words that will help calm her and soothe me too. I whisper it's alright, Mommy's here. And then--in what seems like an eternity for both of us, but really it's only an instant--the pain begins to fade; she loosens her grasp around my neck, looks up at me with her teary blue eyes, and I smile. I'm sure she sees my sadness there; lurking beneath my healing facade lives a boundless empathy for her, for whatever part of her little body or soul that was injured and might still smart.
I put on a brave smile and think of some distraction, something that will turn her attention to happier thoughts. It always works, but I still hurt for her, even after she's climbed down from my arms and moved on, the whole thing behind her. I marvel as she's off, the pain forgotten, as carefree and daring as ever to explore the world. And I struggle through the memory, the guilt of what I could have done differently to better protect my little girl.
How easily children can let go of pain; and what a gift that is.
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