A few weeks ago, my three year old daughter, Manhattan, hurt herself on exercise bars at her MyGym class. She had just moved across the entire length of the cross bars for the first time. She was so elated that she climbed back up the ladder to do it again. Her enthusiasm got the best of her. Instead of simply reaching out to the first bar, her ball of energy jumped toward the second bar. Along the way she nailed her forehead on the first bar and fell to the ground (thankfully, it was a padded ground). She was very scared, looked up at me and started balling. As I reached for her, a Fred Flinstone bump was raising on her head. I felt terrible.
She started saying: “I wanna go home. Daddy, I wanna go home.” This is where it got tough. I wanted nothing more than to take her home and make her feel better, but was that the right thing to do? She fell – shouldn’t she get back up? Her class is still there. Shouldn’t she stay there with her team? Then again, what kind of parent forces his three year old to stay at MyGym after she just got whacked in the head? This was hard for me.
I decided to take her home. Regardless of the benefits of keeping her there, she had a bump on her head and I had no idea how bad it might be … I should at least start driving home and if it got worse I’d be in a better spot to take her to the ER. It made sense, but I still had a guilty feeling – was I taking the easy way out of this situation? Was I showing Manhattan that once you get hurt, you go home?
Well, I received my answer about three minutes after starting the car. At a stoplight, I looked in the rearview mirror to see how she was doing. Her car seat is directly behind mine. She was gazing out the window, not saying a word, her bump visible but not growing. Without making a fuss, I reached back with my right hand to touch her leg. I don’t why – maybe to comfort her? Maybe to comfort me? Since I’m about as flexible as Herman Munster, I wasn’t able to look back at her – I could only reach. When I did, she grabbed my pinky and held it. There I was for the next six minutes, driving on I-4 with my right hand extended around my seat being held by my perfect three year old. Even though I might have torn my labrum holding onto her, I wasn’t about to let go. For six minutes, she didn’t say a word and neither did I (which is unheard of on our drives together). It was six of the best minutes of my life … no kidding.
Was I right to take her home? I don’t know, I know I wasn’t wrong. I know she needed to be comforted, and I gave that to her. After my internal debate, our drive, and my reflecting on the situation, I realize that I might have been wrong, and that’s ok. This parenting thing is hard. It’s not about succeeding or failing. It’s not about right and wrong. I think it’s about all the gray area in between, and how we manage it. I don’t know the right answer … and that’s ok.
