This one thing

I never realized what a judgy place it is out there in mommyland until I was pregnant with my son. Scary mommies, sanctimommies, all-up-in-your-business mommies. I dipped my toes in a few forums and Facebook groups but pulled out pretty quickly. I know there are some safe places out there but most of it is crazy town. I’ve never understood judging someone for the personal decisions they make or basing your decisions on what others might think.

For the most part I’ve made my mom and parent decisions without much angst. I drank coffee while pregnant (sometimes even a little wine, shhh don’t tell). I breast and bottle fed, both in public. I co-slept when I needed too and didn’t hide it. I don’t have a problem sharing the way I raise my son because I just don’t care what you think about it.

Except for this one thing.

When my son was about a month old I dropped him down the stairs. Literally dropped him. I had just given him a bath and was taking him downstairs to say goodnight to Ryan. I was walking down to the lowest level of our tri-level house and my foot slipped off the edge of a stair. When I fell he flew out of my hands, rolled down the last few steps and onto the floor. I thought I had killed him.

Ryan calmly picked up M and comforted him while at the same time tried to calm me down. I was almost hyperventilating and hadn’t moved from the spot where I’d landed. I felt paralyzed, and horrified, and Oh My God, what did I do?

I took M from Ryan, and while still crying and shaking, I examined his little body for the damage I was sure I would find.  Although M seemed fine, I was convinced that I had irreparably injured him. We took him the ER to get checked out and to save my mind. Telling the ER doctor why we were there made me want to throw up. What kind of mother drops her teeny-tiny baby?!

Fifty hours later (why does it take sooo long?). M got the all clear and we went home. I was still sure that something was wrong. That his brain was bleeding or there was a broken bone they just didn’t see. I held him, and cried, told him I was sorry, and barely slept that night.

He was fine, of course. Babies are like little rubber balls apparently and much more immune to falls than grown-ups. He didn’t have a mark on him; my bruise stuck around for a good month. My body wasn’t the only thing bruised though, so was my sense of self-worth as a mom. Telling the ER doc that I dropped my child was bad enough, I couldn't imagine telling my friends or even my own mom. Forget about telling internet strangers. I would surely be ripped apart. “Well if you were wearing him that wouldn’t have happened.” “This is exactly why I don’t have stairs in my house.”

It seems silly now, not telling, because I know accidents happen all the time. Moms fall down stairs. Babies roll off changing tables. Kids get away from you at the mall.

I’ve also come to realize that in the aftermath of an accident like this this is when I actually find my mom-worth. The same goes for when M falls and skins his knee and looks to me for comfort. Or when he is sick and finds some peace in my arms only. In these moments I am completely focused on him and all my motherly instincts kick in.

As mothers, our worth is not defined by when we drop our babies down the stairs, let them roll off the table, or lose track of them for a second at the mall. It’s in after, in how we respond to these situations, that our mom-worth is revealed.  

From now on I will share my accident stories proudly. Those fourm moms need some new stories to clutch their pearls over anyway.