I’m A Mom Who Can’t Always Make It Better

Caleb Friday

“This will sting for a few seconds.” I blew my breath on the newly scraped flesh.

I ran toward my four year old as he limped nearer. The tears flowing down his cheeks multiplied with the sight of mom and blood oozing from his knee. A kiss, bandaid, tear-wiping, and mom-cuddles will “make it better.”

My kids had their share of boo-boos. Especially, Caleb, our son. A Ninja at heart. Bike wrecks, jumps off high things, roller skates would not cooperate with his feet, and many run-ins with the concrete at the swimming pool. Usually the lifeguard’s whistle was too late. Busted chin or bottom lip—corroboration that hard surfaces are not our friends—and adversaries of mothers.

Knees, elbows, and shins are tender places. The good Lord knew how to construct the human body, this I know. “The padding is sparse on certain parts, Lord.” (As if I have a case in point.)

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