By Ashley Case
@ashleylcase

"How do I protect your head, baby boy?" I say, moving my thumb across my eight-month-old’s bruised forehead. He lurches to one side of my hip, determined to get back down, and I grimace at the thought of another fall.

"You can't." My husband says from down the hall. "You just can't." 

A few hours later, my husband takes the baby upstairs to the safety of the carpet. I lean against the stovetop, holding a spatula in one hand and pressing the full screen button on my phone with the other. I decide this is the perfect time to brush up on my infant and child CPR skills. I move the potatoes around in the pan as I strain to see the precise position for back blows and chest thrusts, even though I already know. It’s been years, but I haven’t forgotten. My newly mobile babe is now opening every cabinet door, reaching for objects overhead, and moving far faster than his chubby little legs seem capable of taking him. I feel an urgent need to be prepared for any sort of emergency. I am responsible for knowing what to do.

“Dinner’s almost ready!” I yell toward the stairs, pausing the video to make a mental note of what my husband should know in case I’m away. 

But where would I be? I’m always here.

***

Just before the snow melted last spring, I allowed—no, encouraged—my older two boys to play outside. The sun was high and we squinted against the white-washed landscape as I held the backdoor open. This could be the last chance they have to play in the snow, I thought to myself. 

The problem was that sprawling patches of ice lay hidden beneath the fresh dusting of snow, courtesy of last week’s freezing rain. I knew this, but convinced myself I was overreacting this time. We had stayed inside the last two days and three felt overly prudent.

A few hours later, after my five-year-old slipped, fell, and met the ice with the side of his head, I found myself enroute to the ER, regret and baby in tow.

“What happened?” My husband asked through the phone.

“He slipped outside and hit his head. I thought he was okay, but then all he wanted to do was lay down … then he started throwing up.” I choked on my words.

“You let them outside on the ice?” He questioned. The tone of his voice sounded more like condemnation than concern, but I had already accepted the verdict.

I pressed my foot harder against the gas pedal as shame rose up in my throat. “I know, I feel sick about it. I thought maybe the fresh snow would have stuck to the ice—I didn’t realize how slippery it was still.” I took a sharp inhale and shook my head, holding back my urge to panic. “I’ll call you after we see a doctor.” 

I hung up quickly and drove the remaining twenty-five minutes to the ER, inwardly scolding myself for all potential injury: I could have prevented this. How stupid can I be? What if he is seriously injured? What if this is one of those freak falls that cause a severe concussion or brain bleed? 

I felt my face flush as I checked the rearview mirror. My little boy’s face still hovered over the plastic bowl in his lap.

Please be okay, please be okay! I pleaded silently.

***

I don’t know when I adopted the belief that I am solely responsible for the welfare of our children, but when something goes wrong, my default belief is this: it’s my fault. I am married to a capable man who is equally devoted to our children. Still, my mind does not hesitate to calculate every possible scenario, whether they are in my care or not. And when I ignore the alarms in my head and try to be the laid-back, “chill” mom that so many mothers appear to be, bad things happen. Not every time, but enough to deter me from taking many risks. 

I was a child in the 80’s. My mom, a free-spirit, and my dad, at least externally, laid back, gave my siblings and I plenty of freedom and space to take risks. I wasn’t the only child raised this way though. I don’t remember adults present when my friends and I went swimming or took bike rides to the local grocery store. I never recall anyone asking us what we were watching on TV during sleepovers or who we were talking to on the phone late at night. Maybe it’s because I was a naturally cautious and obedient child or maybe it was just the state of my corner of the world at that time.

Though I was rarely injured as a child, I do remember one particular visit to the ER. I was seven, maybe eight years old. We had a small hobby farm bordering cornfields and acres of dense woods. That summer, my mom surprised me with a chestnut-colored pony with a wide blaze down the center of his face. He was about two years old and “green-broke.” In horse terms, this implies that he had been saddled and ridden, but was still quick to resist the weight of a human on his back. I lost track of how many times I was thrown from that stubborn pony’s back. He had mastered the head tuck and buck maneuver and knew exactly how to get me out of the saddle when he had had enough of the day’s lesson. On this particular day, after wiping the dirt off of my britches, my mom told me, “You must get back on or he’ll think he’s in charge.” I obeyed with shaking hands, but sensed that it wouldn’t end well. I was right. This time, instead of landing on the sandy earth, I met the wooden pasture fence with my head. I don’t remember now what happened next, but I have vague recollections of a plastic bowl and a hospital bed.

Did my mom blame herself that day? Did I blame myself? Does it even matter?

***

My husband and I recently moved to a plot of land nestled in between a small creek and a larger one the size of a small river. The land is full of white pines, oaks, maples, and birch trees, many of which exceed fifty feet in height. My husband has images of coyotes, fox, turkeys, deer, and a bobcat on our trail cam, just to name a few. Our property is filled with beauty and danger. Sending our boys outside to play comes with risks that our previous one-quarter acre lot and neighborhood simply didn’t have.

Watch out for poison ivy, I hear myself say.

Please stay away from the dock.
Don’t climb too high and stay clear of dead branches.
Wear long socks—I’ll check you for ticks later.

“Don’t worry, Mom.” My middle son likes to say. “If I get hurt, it’s my own fault.”

I derive zero comfort from this statement and I wonder, did he learn this [assigning blame] from me?

Sometimes I think of my parents and how they must have felt letting their children ride horses, bump through the woods on dirt bikes, go out with friends, etc.—most of the time without adult supervision. What was their internal dialogue when something happened?

I am realizing that blame is just the way I’ve tried to cope with the regret and shame that comes when my fears come true, but ultimately, it doesn’t protect me or my kids. Blame only channels my regret and shame into harsh judgments of myself or others—comfort plays no part in it.

***

There’s a JJ Heller song that goes like this: 

What if the world doesn’t end 
when the fears come true?
What if we have what we need 
to make it through?

I watch my now thirteen-month-old son run down the hall, plastic drill in hand. He chucks it to the floor and begins pushing his high chair across the hardwood floor. Drool trails from his chin as his smile stretches toward his ears. I watch his eyes scan the room for what to grab next. His face is pure bliss.

For a brief moment, I picture him losing his grip on the highchair and face-planting the wood floor, but I take a deep breath, say a silent prayer for both of us, and give myself permission to smile.

Guest essay written by Ashley Case. Ashley lives in Michigan with her husband and three sons. She is a pediatric OT turned homeschool mom who loves strong coffee, spending time outdoors, baking, writing, and reading (or listening to) nonfiction.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.