like hearts, bones were made to be broken

The Children’s ER was one of the first landmarks we became most familiar with when we moved to Atlanta almost a year ago. On our third visit in as many months, I was convinced my photo would be thumbtacked to some corkboard with the message: Either this woman is a terrible mother, or her family has terrible luck. It was the latter. I’m a pretty awesome mom, at least 70% of the time.

The second week of kindergarten, Devon broke her arm falling from the monkey bars on the school playground. The experience of a first bone break, coupled with a move to a new state in my daughter’s first year of school, was a lot to take in. But like all crappy experiences, some good always comes out of it. For example, she gained instant popularity at school. Even the principal knows her name, something she still brags about.

Three weeks after her hot pink cast came off, she rebroke her arm while enthusiastically reaching for a whoopee cushion. This break was even worse and not because I was out with my cousin Tina eating dinner and we weren’t able to finish our pitcher of Sangria. It was worse because the bones shifted, which meant the docs had to manipulate it into place at the ER. This time she got a purple and pink cast.

Since the second break, Devon has been a little gun shy on the playground. Not with slides or swings, but definitely on the monkey bars. Her arm had to rebuild its muscle, and more importantly, she had to build up the courage to try again. She’s had a few close calls trying them out and then falling. Her little heart would beat so fast, and I knew she was scared. My heart would beat right along with hers.

Our kids carry our hearts with them everywhere they go: school, the playground, sports games, dance recitals, doctor’s appointments, playdates, sleepovers. Every little hurt, big or small, breaks our hearts, maybe even more than theirs.

I will never forget my daughter’s face in the school nurses office, as she sat holding her broken arm. I nearly fainted. Twice. It broke my heart in a whole new way. It kills you to see your child in serious pain. But as Kristin Hersh sings, “bones were made to be broken.” She has four sons, so she’s probably familiar with all kinds of injuries. I agree. Like hearts, bones were made to be broken. And like bones, hearts were made to heal.

And, damn if my kid doesn’t keep trying at those monkey bars. Her bravery is contagious. Maybe the same is true of my encouragement. As much as I want to protect her from getting hurt again, I’m not going to stunt her growth with my own fears. Getting hurt is part of life. Every time she tries, we both take a deep breath and hope for the best.

A few days ago, she made it across the swinging monkey bars at our neighborhood park. It took at least 20 attempts. At one point she actually looked at her arm and said, “Come on. You can do this.”

And she did.