My Mommy Guilt

What a crazy weekend! I knew it was going to be. My baby brother was getting married, and there was a lot to be done.

Friday night was his rehearsal. Of course, that somehow necessitated a trip to almighty Walmart. What major party doesn’t?

I hurried the kids into the car, along with a pregnant little sister, her husband, their son and my own husband to boot (because "since you are going, can we come along?").

I had to rush through to pick up a few last-minute necessities—some Dr. Scholl’s Fast Flats (which, for the record, could be a whole column on their own. Oh, how I love them.), some Tums for the inevitable anxiety-induced heartburn, and tights for my daughter. We’d be right in and out, right? Wrong.

One passed-out mommy and six stitches later, we were moving right back on schedule. What’s that you say? How did a quick trip to Wally World end up in stitches? Simple, just add children.

We had no sooner gotten into the automatic-opening double doors than my kids (and their cousin) spotted the mini-arcade. The three dashed to play the electronic games before four adults could even think of catching them.

Since this was clearly going to be a delay, I figured I had time to dash to the front-of-store restroom before the shopping began. I may never use a store bathroom again.

I could hear the blood-curdling screams from the stall. I knew exactly who was screaming. And I knew, at least in general, why. My baby girl was hurt. Every mom knows their own child’s sounds and cries, but especially the difference between a “I-didn’t-get-the-toy-I-wanted” cry versus the “I’m-seriously-hurt” screams.

And, I knew it. Right then and there. Something was terribly wrong. I dashed out the door as quickly as I could and ran back toward the arcade. My husband was holding my 3-year-old daughter, blood gushing from her face. She’d taken a swan dive from a quarter ride, hitting the floor chin first.

Store managers were headed our way with clipboards and paperwork. My husband and I instantly pushed past them. Sometimes being to a former Army medic pays off. He knew this would need stitches from the first look. We were going to the ER. A pack including two of the most silent 5-year-old boys I’ve ever seen, a concerned uncle and pregnant aunt followed behind.

I drove through my hometown faster than I have ever done so in my life. I threw on the four-ways, beeped the horn, and was suddenly quite happy to be driving a gas-guzzling tank on wheels.

We got to the hospital and, God bless them, they thankfully rushed her right to triage. The nurse agreed—it was stitches. My daughter’s chin was split right open.

They took her right back to see the doctor. It took my husband, a doctor, and four, yes that’s right, four nurses to hold her down. Why, might you ask, was Mommy not holding her? Oh, because Mommy was on the floor.

I did the blood. It didn’t bother me. I held my screaming toddler while they cleaned her up and looked at the wide-open gash in her face. I could take the tears and the blood. Short of puke, I am fairly good with bodily fluid clean-up duties. But, when the doctor brought out a tiny needle to inject Lidocaine to numb my little angel’s face … well, all I can remember is getting hot, feeling sweat burst instantaneously out of every pore on my body, and then waking up on the floor. My fear of needles ended my courageous support of a screaming preschooler.

In all the commotion, it was barely noticed. One of the four nurses, who had eventually decided that the only way to contain my daughter was to put her in a pillow case and hold the edges (glad I missed that), suddenly noticed I had crawled over to a chair.

“The mom’s not doing so well,” she said.

That was an understatement. They suggested I leave the room until it was over. I had to sit in the ER waiting room, bawling my eyes out and thinking I must be about the worst mom in the whole world. I couldn’t be there for my daughter during her most traumatic pain. Here I was, instead, sitting in the lobby unable to deal with the trauma and screams and, oh yeah, a teeny-tiny needle.

Everyone said I should look at the bright side, that I got to come in at the end and “save her” from these terrible people that were so mean. But, all I could see was that, in her moment of need, I wasn’t there for her. I couldn’t hold her hand. (Well, hell, it was in a pillow case.) Instead, I was on the floor.

In the end, she probably won’t remember it. She is 3. We’ll retell her the story of her falling off of the 25-cent Spider-Man ride at Walmart, and she’ll laugh. She’ll have a tiny scar, thankfully neatly tucked UNDER her chin. You can’t even see it looking straight at her face.

But, I’ll know. Ah, the guilt of a mommy.