The Blame Game (a.k.a. Misplaced Anger)

My daughter suffered a pretty bad bicycle wreck this afternoon. I was partially to blame. Maybe fully. And I feel terrible. Whether intentionally or not, I distracted her, causing her to look back over her shoulder. She ran off our aggregate driveway into the grass, lost her balance and fell with all of her knees and all of her palms onto the rough driveway.

I knew as soon as we passed each other that she would fall. I knew weeks ago when, at the age of 10 and she finally decided to learn to ride a bike, that she would fall. I knew she was falling as a scared voice called, “Mommy!”

I laid my own bike on its side and ran to her. Her Dad carried her into the house and we washed and bandaged her up. It took a while before we knew the full extent of the injuries -- one cut palm, one really scuffed palm, one knee with a scuff and a scrape, and one knee with a gash surrounded by dangling, mangled skin.

As I cleaned her up, I fought back my own tears. I hurt for her. I knew it was scary. I know how bad a scraped knee feels and especially one with a good cut on top of a scrape. I know it’s scary seeing blood run from you. It’s almost as scary as seeing blood run from someone you love, someone with whom you’d gladly and immediately trade places.

But the most hurtful injury she suffered wasn’t to her body, but, rather, her bike. Her brand new, shiny bike. After I got her calmed down and somewhat comfortable, I had to break the news that the bike, too, suffered an injury. There’s a quarter-sized hole now in the side of her seat, marring what is otherwise a perfect specimen. For this, she looked me squarely in the eyes and uttered some words I said to my own mother, words that will cut you deeply, though no blood pours forth:  “Why? Why did you let it happen? I hate you.”

There’s not enough Bactine in the world to take the sting out of that.

She later apologized for speaking angrily, but my love for irony didn’t let me miss this moment because I actually said something like that earlier. See, as we were riding through our neighborhood today, I, like I do every time we ride, said a quick prayer: “Watch over her, and keep her safe, please.” And it was I who was so quick to think, “what happened? We had a deal. Where were You? Did You look away for a minute? I thought You had my back? And if not mine, at least hers. Why did You let it happen?”

Then I heard a reassuring voice. “I was there. She’ll learn something from this fall and maybe you will, too. But I was there.”

And, so, as it turns out, you can learn from skinned knees at any age, and, if you’re strong of mind, and body, and character, you’ll get back on that bike the first chance you get.