Falling

I barely know how to talk about what happened last night, but I need to, so here goes. 

Violet is nineteen months old, but she’s been trying to chase her brothers since she figured out how to crawl.  If they can do it, she’s going to try to do it.  Most of the time, she succeeds.  She learned to climb before she learned to walk, and the ladder on the playset is no obstacle to her.  She climbs ours.  She climbs the one at the park.  She climbs the one at the neighbor’s house.  She loves, loves, loves to go down the slide, and she loves, loves, loves to do it by herself.

We popped over to the neighbors’ back yard last night because it was warm, sunny, and too completely delicious outside to go to bed.  The kids kind of scattered, with Violet trending toward the dog and the slide.  I usually try to stay within ten feet of her, and I move closer when she climbs the ladder.  Sometimes I need to catch her at the bottom of the slide, and sometimes she loses her footing on the ladder.  Just yesterday, she fell off playground slide, right into my arms.  She bit her lip and cried, but no harm was done. 

Last night, she was climbing the ladder for the twentieth time while I stood three feet away.  The kids had pulled an old wooden bench over and placed it facing the ladder (why?).  I was right behind the bench…within arm’s reach.  Maddie and I were chatting when Violet lost her balance; we saw it at the same time.  I heard Maddie say, “She’s falling!” and I was already on the move.  So much of this is muddled in my mind…the opposite of the clarity you sometimes get in terrifying situations.  She was near the top of the ladder when she fell, she caught herself a step down, and then sort of skidded with her tummy to the ladder.  It wasn’t a total free-fall, but it was close.  And here’s the thing: I couldn’t get to her.  The bench blocked my way, and no surge of adrenaline project me over it.  I was still reaching for her when she hit the ground. 

I watched her hit the ground.

I did not catch her.  I could not catch her, or maybe I didn’t know how.  All those mama bear instincts that I thought I’d have…failed me.  The image of her lying there, facing away from me so I couldn’t even see her eyes…I just can’t.  I didn’t know she was OK.  She very well might not have been.

She was only on the ground for a second or two…not enough time to even start crying.  I snatched her up, which in retrospect wasn’t a great decision seeing as I didn’t know if she’d hurt her neck.  But I had to hold her, had to touch her, had to comfort her.  The moment she was settled in my arms, she started to wail.  Loud, terrified screams…not screams of pain.  My friend checked her head for bumps and ran for frozen peas.  My husband exploded in a mix of panic and rage.  And after no more than thirty seconds in my arms, Violet decided she was over it and started squirming to get down.

I wouldn’t put her down.  I sat on a deck chair and tried to hold the peas on the part of her head where we thought she might have hit.  The frozen peas were vastly more horrible than the three-foot fall.  (Why do they tell you to put ice on kids’ injuries?  Is anyone actually successful at this???)  She screamed every time I picked them up and squirmed some more to get down.  The baseball game was continuing in the backyard and she was missing it.  The dog was still in the yard, and she was stuck on a deck.  Oh, the fury of a toddler!  I didn’t care; I was watching her pupils, scanning her head for bumps, and waiting for her to throw up.  She didn’t.

Finally, we brought the dog up to keep her occupied, and Maddie got out the treats.  She offered one to Violet, thinking she would enjoy feeding the dog.  Violet snatched the treat and popped it in her own mouth.  That should have been my cue that she was OK.  Maddie reclaimed the treat and showed Violet how to feed it to the dog.  She giggled and the process was repeated at least five times.  (The whole process.  Violet tried to eat every single treat.)  Slowly we started to piece together what had happened.

Our best guess is that the wooden bench – the one that prevented me from catching her – met the leg of the playset ladder to form a V.  It appears that Violet’s shoulder landed squarely in that wedge, absorbing the fall and cushioning the fall for her head.  Other than a scrape on her knee - probably sustained when she grazed the ladder, a graze that certainly slowed her fall – she has absolutely no sign of injury.  I kept her up late to watch for signs of a concussion, and checked on her throughout the night. 

This morning she woke up to a croupy cough…but she woke up.  She WOKE UP!  I know how very blessed I am, how different this story could have been. 

When I hear stories of terrible accidents, I like to distance myself from the situation by assigning blame.  That couldn’t happen to my kids because I supervise them.  That couldn’t happen to my kid because I’m responsible.  That couldn’t happen to us because we are good enough to prevent it.  But last night?  I was supervising.  I was close.  And I couldn’t catch her. 

As I replayed this over and over, another realization hit me.  I couldn’t catch her, but God did.  He let her land in that perfect V.  He protected her head.  He protected her neck.  I wish she hadn’t fallen at all, but He broke her fall in the perfect way.  She’s back at daycare today, sharing her upper respiratory infection with the kids who shared it with her.  She’ll probably try to climb the playset again tonight…because this kid knows no fear.  She is quite confident in her landings.

I’ve been trying to journey to a place of trust with my Father.  Today, I keep telling myself: He caught her.  When my hands weren’t enough, He protected her.  He catches me, too…especially when I can’t catch myself.