Boobaby got a fat lip last week, and I’m entirely to blame.
- I could have kept her inside where all our household surfaces are made out of Play-Doh. Then she’d never have gotten hurt.
- Or I could drop her off at the steak knife and glass shard factory with a sack lunch and come back for her next day.
Obviously, I opt for something in between. You’ll remember that I wrote once about how I try to simultaneously support Boo’s her risk-taking while keeping a firm hold on her. She’s getting older, though, and I find myself needing to let go more often, to let her push her limits just a little farther each day. I walk a precarious line between being an overbearing parent and an unconcerned one; on an average day I run the gamut from risk-averse to riskophilic. (Oooh, I like that. I’m a riskophile!)
Walk a fine line, though, and you’re likely to fall now and then, and that’s just what Boo did, off the swing, on her ickle face. I wrote it up over at GNM Parents yesterday:
…at the height of her swing on that last fateful ride, I asked her “After this, do you want to go look for bugs?”
“Bugs?” Boobaby bemusedly glanced over to the bug-laden lawn and shouted “Bugs!” in agreement. The effort distracted her just long enough to allow the swing to slip from her grasp, her momentum carrying her flying into the air unsupported. Aghast, I watched as Boo careened to the ground, proud despite my terror that she caught herself with her arms and rolled into the fall.
Sound awful? Well, it was. Check out the entire post and you can discover just how awful and how I processed it afterward. (In case you’re worried, I think, in the end, I suffered mentally quite a bit more than Boo did physically.