My Baby’s Pain
I watched in nervous marvel as my baby daughter insisted to venture from crawling to walking undaunted by hundreds of prior failed attempts. Pulling herself up, she stumbles, tilts and bonks her head on the coffee table. Ouch. That one hurt.
Her piercing cry penetrates my very soul.
There is a millisecond flash of stunned confusion on her angelic face as this strange unwelcome thing called ‘pain’ registers in her budding new brain. Then her pure-white innocence twists red as the incomprehensible injustice blooms a stinging discomfort across her blameless forehead. Yow!
I glare at the offending piece of furniture and plot to burn it to the quick. I hate the table.
Her piercing cry penetrates my very soul. I swoop to the rescue—not to comfort I imagine—but to save her and to instantly take the hurt away. Desperately I triage her bitty-head-bump to erase the ghastly end-table experience that dared to make my baby cry. I glare at the offending piece of furniture and plot to burn it to the quick. I hate the table.
Father’s Love Pours
My little girl cries it out as I snug her close, rocking gently—“It’s okay honey, Daddy’s here. It’s not easy being a little girl.” Then I croon my dumb-dad solace over and over with melody, “It’s not easy being a little girl. It’s not easy being a little girl.” I sing it softly. Her tiny fingers clutch my neck. She tucks herself to my heart as Father’s love pours.
She tucks herself to my heart as Father’s love ours.
Her crying quiets. She calms in my protection. I hold on yearning to soothe—praying, imploring, and begging for every last ounce of hurt to leave her. As her tears dry, my heart absorbs them and I vow that I will never let her go again.
But, of course, I did let her go. She crawled right back and climbed again. And this time she stood and prospered. Then the years flew past and she grew up. She’s away at college now and very much blossoming on her own. She’s ready and it’s time to let her go again. I am blessed. She’s a wonderful kid and her Father’s pride and joy.
Never Let Go
Of course, she doesn’t know that story, or dozens like them. As nature has it, she doesn’t remember the morning when she whacked her head on the coffee table. Good. At least for a brief while, from when they are very young, the pain can be erased after all.
At least for a brief while, from when they are very young, the pain can be erased after all.
But parents never forget. No matter how small the bump, the flash of hurt on our children’s face is a wrenching moment that stabs gigantic instant ache in every guarding parent’s heart. Images of their innocence assaulted are memorialized in our brains forever. Our baby’s long-healed scrapes twinge hurt within us still.
I hate that table. But oh what joy it was, when she was a little one, to take away my baby’s pain so completely! It’s mine now. And I will never it let go.