Shortly after Greta’s first birthday, she broke her leg (insert gasps here). Yes, it was horrible and yes, I was actually in the same room less than six inches away from her when it happened. I wince anytime I think about how I was taking off her shoes and her sister’s shoes and sister asked me a question, and I turned quickly and THEN there went Greta, sliding off the bench in our family room, and my nine-fingered self couldn’t save her in time.
I missed the save.
Mother’s Day is around the corner, and Mother of the Year has eluded me once again. In a split second, I saw my sweet little girl on the floor in a modified splits-position crying a high-pitched, never-heard-before-wail with humungous, panic-stricken eyes. I’m clearly not a doctor, but I knew right away something was wrong. I mean, I’m a MOM. So of COURSE I know when something is wrong.
I knew because a couple weeks before that I broke my first bone. Ever. Oddly enough, carrying Greta, when our garage door slammed on my finger. I’ve spent the better part of my life drinking milk, so broken bones aren’t usually on my radar screen, and suddenly they’ve been flashing in neon brights around here. I had been operating pretty well with nine functional fingers, or so I had thought. I vacuumed and washed dishes and gave baths and changed diapers and buckled and unbuckled carseats with a missing digit and without missing a beat.
But I missed the save. I.still.missed.the.save.
Any mom who has witnessed an accident knows the “what ifs” and “if only’s” that consume our thoughts when we rethink / dwell on / obsess over / excessively guilt-rid ourselves about the experience.
After Greta and I got home from the hospital, she sporting a full-leg cast and me sporting a full-sized heartache, my adrenaline crashed and I cried. And cried. She was clearly no worse for the wear, snuggled right into her crib and slept soundly through the night, but I couldn’t close my eyes without playing the fall in my head over.andover.andover.again.
Terms like “growth plates” and “buckle breaks” and “cast care” echoed in my tired little skull. My mother-in-law told me to write down my feelings and then burn the piece of paper. My mom assured me Greta would never remember anything and love me just the same. And then, one friend reminded me of this: “……think of all the accidents you have prevented! You're a warrior mom!”
WAIT! She was SO right. We ARE warriors! I’ve saved sister from being hit by a car and saved brother from running into a pole and saved Greta from eating a water bug and saved sister from drowning in the bath and saved brother from falling down the stairs. I’m sure for every one save I’m remembering, there are ten that I’m forgetting – in part because being a Mom means acting on instinct and reflexes.
We automatically do so many things each day to help our little people that we don’t stop to give ourselves credit for half of it. And that’s ok – we don’t need constant reassurance. Mothers instinctively ‘just know’ and automatically ‘just do.’
I may not be Mother of the Year, but I have learned a lot more about mothering this year. This gig isn’t easy, and it’s full of missed saves, but if I have the privilege of raising a tribe of future warriors?
That’s absolutely the best honor there is.
Submitted by Springfield Moms contributor Jennifer Handrich Madiar. Jen is a Wisconsin Badger, Green Bay Packer. Chicago Cubs rooting mom of three kids ages four and under. In her previous life, she worked in Advertising, then Education, then Marketing. Now she combines the three and has added at least 271 additional areas of expertise in her current job of Mom. She, her husband and their family live in Springfield, Illinois.