A Little Bit Brave [an essay about pain, courage, and learning from our kids]

“I just need to lay down for a few minutes,” I tell my husband, Colson, as soon as he walks in the door from work. It’s been a day, and I can feel the exhaustion in every muscle. The head cold making its way through our home seems to have camped out with me longer than everyone else. I also feel like I’ve been on the verge of throwing up pretty much all day long.

I collapse into bed, basking in the quietness of my room. Not three minutes later, I hear screaming.

You know the kind—it’s more than a tantrum and more than a bump or bruise. I should probably go see what’s going on.

I throw off my comforter and stomp down the stairs, a bit too annoyed at the audacity of my child to interrupt my precious alone time with her yelling.

“What’s going on?” I ask Colson, with more than a hint of frustration.

“Izzy fell. I think it’s bad.”

I turn to my six-year-old daughter, the one who’s been screaming, the one I’m annoyed with for disturbing my peace. She gingerly holds up her arm, tears of pain still streaming down her face.

I take one glance at that arm, and my frustration melts into compassion. There’s no blood, but I know enough anatomy to know bones aren’t meant to bend that way…

Continue reading this essay at Coffee + Crumbs.

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