Love
I have learned to love my little people on a whole new level. A level that can only be reached through promotion of fear. A level that no parent strives to achieve.
Oldest Daughter recently attended the birthday party of her closest friend. I dropped her off at birthday girls house, giddy with anticipation. At the conclusion of the party, birthday girl's mom would escort the birthday girl and four guests to a park across the street, where the parents knew to retrieve the girls at a particular time.
Sometime prior to birthday party pick-up time, my phone rings and I see that it is birthday mom calling. Answering it, I am greeted with screaming in the background and birthday mom yelling my daughters name before the line goes dead. I promptly call the number back, her phone sending the call straight to voicemail. Over and over again I frantically call birthday mom's number, just to be continuously redirected to leave a message. When birthday mom finally answers my call, she is sobbing as she pleads with me to hurriedly drive to the park.
As I gather up Youngest Daughter, strapping her into the car seat, dread and the strongest sense of fear threaten to overcome me. I am convinced something horrible has happened to Oldest Daughter.
Thirty seconds later, I arrive at the park. A quick survey of the area reveals glass littered across the road, a black suv parked across the road, blocking almost all access through, and a small figure lying in the road surrounded by the suv driver, a passerby and birthday mom. As I rush from the car, I push down the panic. And then I see Oldest Daughter and birthday girl sitting together a short distance from the accident.
A little girl, a birthday party guest and close friend of Oldest Daughter, chose to run ahead of the others on their trek to the park. Before birthday mom could pull her back onto the sidewalk, the girl ran into the street and was struck by the suv.
When I realised the girl lying in the street was not my daughter, I was flooded with relief. But that relief was short-lived. She may not be my child lying hurt in the road, but as a mother, it doesn't matter. That girl is someone's child. She is the child of a parent that is going to receive the awful news that her daughter was horribly hurt. She may not be my flesh and blood, but it hurts almost the same.
The story does not end as badly as it could have. The firetrucks, an ambulance and loads of police arrived very shortly at the scene. The little girl was transported to the hospital with no internal or external injuries present, save a dislocated shoulder that immediately required surgery. Small miracles happened on that street corner.
That night I used the accident as a teaching moment, reinforcing the "look both ways before crossing the street" motto. But I also spent more time being thankful for my loving daughter. I felt the need to hug her more often, appreciate her character more. Fear is a powerful motivator in helping you to appreciate what you thought lost. JCMT
Oldest Daughter recently attended the birthday party of her closest friend. I dropped her off at birthday girls house, giddy with anticipation. At the conclusion of the party, birthday girl's mom would escort the birthday girl and four guests to a park across the street, where the parents knew to retrieve the girls at a particular time.
Sometime prior to birthday party pick-up time, my phone rings and I see that it is birthday mom calling. Answering it, I am greeted with screaming in the background and birthday mom yelling my daughters name before the line goes dead. I promptly call the number back, her phone sending the call straight to voicemail. Over and over again I frantically call birthday mom's number, just to be continuously redirected to leave a message. When birthday mom finally answers my call, she is sobbing as she pleads with me to hurriedly drive to the park.
As I gather up Youngest Daughter, strapping her into the car seat, dread and the strongest sense of fear threaten to overcome me. I am convinced something horrible has happened to Oldest Daughter.
Thirty seconds later, I arrive at the park. A quick survey of the area reveals glass littered across the road, a black suv parked across the road, blocking almost all access through, and a small figure lying in the road surrounded by the suv driver, a passerby and birthday mom. As I rush from the car, I push down the panic. And then I see Oldest Daughter and birthday girl sitting together a short distance from the accident.
A little girl, a birthday party guest and close friend of Oldest Daughter, chose to run ahead of the others on their trek to the park. Before birthday mom could pull her back onto the sidewalk, the girl ran into the street and was struck by the suv.
When I realised the girl lying in the street was not my daughter, I was flooded with relief. But that relief was short-lived. She may not be my child lying hurt in the road, but as a mother, it doesn't matter. That girl is someone's child. She is the child of a parent that is going to receive the awful news that her daughter was horribly hurt. She may not be my flesh and blood, but it hurts almost the same.
The story does not end as badly as it could have. The firetrucks, an ambulance and loads of police arrived very shortly at the scene. The little girl was transported to the hospital with no internal or external injuries present, save a dislocated shoulder that immediately required surgery. Small miracles happened on that street corner.
That night I used the accident as a teaching moment, reinforcing the "look both ways before crossing the street" motto. But I also spent more time being thankful for my loving daughter. I felt the need to hug her more often, appreciate her character more. Fear is a powerful motivator in helping you to appreciate what you thought lost. JCMT
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