When Moms Fall

I fell down the stairs tonight. It happened in what felt like the blink of an eye. One moment, I was arguing with the 5 year old, trying to get him to go up the stairs to put on his pajamas while I went down the stairs to get him a glass of water. It was late and we had been out all day and then at our neighbor’s house past bedtime. As I pivoted to turn down the stairs, my foot slipped on the step and suddenly I was on the floor in the fetal position. The only time I’ve had something happen that quickly, where I went from going about my business to suddenly being hurt and unsure how I got somewhere, was when I was in a car accident a week before Brad and I got married.

As I lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs trying to figure out just how hurt I was, my sweet boys were moving to do whatever they could to help. My youngest got me an icepack, gave me sweet kisses on my shoulder, and my oldest got a bandaid and put it on my scraped forearm without a second thought. Even though I was in pain and feeling silly for falling down the stairs, I was mostly overcome with pride that my kids were able to do all they could to take care of me. They were amazing and I have to think that they’ve paid attention every time I’ve cleaned a skinned knee, put an ice pack on a head bump, or bandaged a paper cut.

It’s hard to know when they’re listening, but I’m pretty sure kids know what’s going on most of the time. They pay attention and pick up on the good and the bad around them. Sure, that seems like a lot of pressure. But if that doesn’t inspire us to be at our best whenever possible and to admit fault when we fall (literally) short, I don’t know what will.

I’m OK, by the way. I have some impressive bruises and judging by what hurts, I fell on my right forearm and my left bum. My forearm is scraped and has a rug burn. But sometimes we need moments like this to remind us of our fragility, right?