a pretty bad day.

An account of our yesterday, written 8.24.10 at 11:45pm...

My darling nine month old boy, baby brother J, had an accident today. My equally as darling three year old girl slammed one of our heavy, century-old, glass-filled interior doors shut, and J's sweet little pinkie finger got in the way. Blood and tears were everywhere. I was frantic. E was scared. L was confused. And poor J, he was a mess.

The next half hour is a bit of a blur, but it involved the following:
The kindness of neighborhood firemen.
The lightning quick response of a friend who answered - without question - my call of distress.
The horrific experience of rescuing part of my baby's finger from our dusty floor.
An extremely frantic phone call to the Hub.
An extremely frantic phone call to the doctor.
Lots and audible, incoherent prayer from yours truly.

One ER visit, three x-rays, one surgery and seven hours later, we were home. Fingertip reattached. Baby boy drunk but fine. Mama and Papa weary.

We were greeted at home by the smiling face of that same friend who came to the rescue, now on hour eight of her drop-everything-and-care-for-our-children-like-they-were-her-own babysitting duty... Another close friend, holding baby brother L who was forlorn from enduring a day without his best bed by his side for the first time in his sweet life... And yet another friend, finishing up dinner in our kitchen and gracefully slipping out the door while we settled in.

I plugged in my phone, which had died hours earlier, and it virtually exploded with text messages and emails that had been waiting for us.

Did I mention my parents, wearing their invisible capes, hopped in the car at first mention of the accident and were halfway here by the time we tucked the kids in bed?

Tell me this. How can such a genuinely awful day - probably one of the most traumatic of my three years of parenting thus far - turn out to also be one of the most beautiful? All of these blessings were poured on us like rain, with more people waiting in the wings, offering prayers and waiting to be called on. It's really breathtaking, the sheer selflessness and beauty of broken people holding one another up so that we don't shatter.

I've been feeling so ill-equipped lately for this job, so ashamed of my failures and shortcomings as a mother. Afraid to share them because they're just too ugly. Sure, none of us is perfect, but there is a limit to how much of these imperfections we are willing to share. True vulnerability is a terrifying thing.

But today, as friends and family step up to love us in every possible way, I realize that I don't have to wait for a tragedy, large or small, to reach out. These same hands and hearts are waiting to help, even when the burden feels to uncomfortable or unnecessary or unlovely to share.

My sweet boy is sleeping. He was the most graceful, contented surgery patient a children's hospital and a frightened parent could hope for. Before they sedated him for surgery, he looked at us, smiled, and made clicking noises with his tongue, something I had done throughout the day to distract him. Then he blew raspberries with his lips and drifted off to sleep.

We were at his bedside when he woke up, the drugs slowly wearing off and his little glazed eyes beginning to flutter. He struggled to focus on us for a few minutes, and then he opened his mouth and gave a faint, slow-motion, click-click with his tongue. Then he turned his head toward the doctors and nurses and blew air through his pouty lips in a sweet, sedated effort to make raspberries. My heart simultaneously leapt and ached. My precious, brave boy picked up right where he left off.