On falling down

We’ve all been witness to the gut-wrenching sight of our child getting injured. It is certainly not pleasant. I remember way back when Benjamin fell off the changing table for the first time. I think he must have been about seven months old - rolled right off and onto the floor, while I stood next to him daydreaming (or sleep-walking, who knows). After shamefully admitting my negligence to a few more experienced parents, the most common phrase related to me was, “Don’t worry. That won’t be the last time.” Some time later our doctor commented that once Ben started walking, he would consider it normal to see his head speckled with more and more bumps and bruises every day. The news was terrifying! Ben was going to get hurt more? And repeatedly? Every day? Forever? No way!

[Sorry - I have to interject here to go and rescue Ben, who just fell in his crib and got his arm caught between the rails. . .]

It was just so unbearable to see him in pain. The sayings have become sort of cliché in our society: you feel helpless, your heart aches, you can feel their pain, etc. I just about thought I would die when I saw his helpless little body lying on the floor at the foot of the changing table, that instant before the tears came gushing forth. Then my parental instincts kicked in, my arms swooped down to pick him up in the flash before my mind realized what was happening, before even Benjamin was fully aware of the new fear that was introduced to his world. And that’s our job as parents: to pick them up, right?

[Excuse me for a moment – I have to go get Ben’s fingers out from the dresser drawer. . .]

My brother, with his four-year- old wonder, Kayleigh, have things figured out slightly different. Unless her injury is life-threatening or disabling, he’s instructed us not to make a big deal out of it. Leave her alone and she will learn to pick herself up. Don’t make a big deal out of it, and neither will she. Resist the urge to run to her side unless, of course, her eyes are bleeding or her ankle is turned backwards and the bones are sticking out. And it works! Like all kids, Kayleigh falls down, peeks out of the corner of her eye to see who’s looking, and if she spots any rubber-neckers, POOF! the tears magically appear. But if no one is around to see her fall? She just wipes off her dress and gets on with her business.

[Sorry, Ben just tripped over the rug. Be right back. . .]

So, sure enough, Ben has had his share of stumbles and owies. Since his first step, the number of incidents probably extends into the dozens each day. If I stubbed my toe or tripped over his toys as much as he does, I’d have to get fitted with a muzzle for the absurd amount of profanities on my breath. Ben wakes up in the morning with twenty new bruises that I swear weren’t there when I laid him down, and before his first nap he’ll add another ten scratches. It still pains me to see the injuries, and yet as the months pass by, I get used to them a little more each time.

[Oops! Benjamin! Be careful! I know, that looks like it hurts. . .]

Ben’s falling has become such a routine, coordinated event, I swear it must be some new dance move he saw on Sesame Street. And because he thinks he’s Mr. Universe, he’ll try and pick up any object not permanently anchored to the floor and hoist it up over his head, more often than not resulting in another lump on his noggin or a throbbing big-toe. I came home from work last week to find him lifting the container of 200 mega-blocks about six inches above the floor before dumping them out, putting the container upside-down over his head, and laughing like the caged-monkey that he is. And from the way he lifted the container (straightened back, lift with your legs) he would make a moving company’s insurance carrier proud. But we all know the popular saying there, “What container goes up on your head, must come crashing down on your face.”

[Benjamin, be careful! You’re going to fall! Oh— okay, you’re okay. . .]

Since the Great Fall from the changing table some seven months ago, I’ve learned that my brother’s advice is more right than wrong. The hard part isn’t watching Ben get hurt (I’m used to that), it’s restraining myself from making a big deal out of it. So if you pass by a sobbing 14-month-old on the floor in the mall, don’t get mad at the dad with his back turned looking into Victoria’s Secret, he’s just practicing restraint. Sort of.

[Benjamin, get down! Get DOWN! Oh— whatever. . .]