I am a laid back mom. My threshold for noise and chaos is remarkably high and it takes a lot to phase me. While we abide by core principles of safety like car seats and helmets and don’t have any guns or play with fireworks or stuff marshmallows in our mouths, my boys have bled enough to merit a trip to the ER (and recover). I don’t want them to get hurt, but I just don’t have the energy to helicopter. To be fair, I barely have the energy to play helicopter, so maybe I just embrace “fun mom” mode by letting be what will be. Injuries, for us, are mostly met with a few carefully placed kisses and ice packs and I can happily check off my responsibility box each night.
That is, until I assisted in the rescue of a 13-year-old girl while her friend tragically drowned on a Chicago beach. That night, I was reduced to a spectator in the painful battle between hope and time when a child submerged and time won. It felt different than my days working on the ambulance because, on that terrible evening, my kids were present to watch how powerless mommy was to make anything better.
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