This Week: After the Fall

Toddler is learning to trust again. I'm learning, too.

Before we get started, a quick plug for the new podcast my wife and I launched this week!

Queer Sages

is a growing collection of the life stories of LGBBTQIA+ elders. It's been a long process to get it up and running, but we finally released the first episode yesterday and I'm very proud to share it with y'all.

---

Dear fam,

About ten days ago, when my wife was in a Zoom meeting, I was pushing Toddler on the swing in our backyard. As the bright yellows and oranges of the afternoon gave way to the muted tones of evening, Toddler cried “Faster!” into the leftover heat hanging in the air. I tried to keep up.

I don’t know exactly what happened next. Maybe she lost her grip on the swing. Or maybe her sweaty palms slipped. Either way, she went flying forward like a rag-doll, curving a perfect arc across the brick patio and landing, face-first on the stones.

I screamed. She screamed. We both screamed so much.

I ran to her side and turned her over. There was a lot of blood. Afterwards, this would turn out to mostly be the product of a busted lip, but it was terrifying. A big goose egg was already protruding from her forehead in shades of red and purple. Blood and snot streamed from her nose.

The next 20 or minutes are very blurry. I know I got ice for her forehead and checked she didn’t have any broken teeth. I know I cleaned up the cuts on her head and knees and stopped the bleeding from her lip. I know I tried to check if she had a concussion by trying to get her to follow my finger from side to side.

Then I asked the babysitter who was helping out to stay with Big Kid, told my wife what happened, and — covered in sweat and blood — piled Toddler into a car to get her to a doctor.

We spent the next four hours in the emergency room, where it became abundantly clear Toddler was quite fine. The Tylenol kicked in. She had a whole host of nurses and doctors to become besties with. The television on the wall was set to Cartoon Network. Around 10:00 p.m, the attending physician gave her a final set of tests — after she finished performing a quick song-n’-dance for the whole staff in the hallway — and declared her fine.

She got to fall asleep in the car on the way home. And I got to stop holding my breath.

---

That day was, in a word, awful. It sucked. Every part of it. I didn’t even tell you yet that we began the day with a dead car battery and ended it (post-ER!) by discovering fly larvae in our shower. Which meant I had to deep-clean and disinfect the bathroom before I got to have my well-earned glass of wine and hot shower.

I mean, what the fuck.

Thank G-d, though, all terrible days must end. What hasn’t ended is Toddler’s low-level anxiety since her fall. Our Toddler has always been a pretty sturdy kid, in all the ways. She knows her mind, and she has no trouble at all declaring her needs. While Big Kid struggled a lot with goodbyes, Toddler often waves us away with a casual, “Bye, Mama!” as she focuses on hanging out with her babysitter, or teacher, or pal.

If I was assigning attachment styles, I’d have given her a secure one every time. But since the fall, this has been less true. For example, the very next night, my wife and I played music at our local synagogue with the Cantor and her wife in honor of Pride month. A babysitter came to hang out with Toddler — someone she’d happily hung out with plenty of times before. This time? She screamed and screamed, clinging to me like a life raft.

That was the next day, so I didn’t worry too much at the time. But the pattern has continued. Today I dropped her off at school and she clung to me as well. Same thing two nights ago, as my wife and I headed out for an event and left her with her very favorite babysitter — someone she usually jumps for joy over upon his arrival. Most worryingly, she will only swing for a moment or two before saying, “I want to get down!” in a panicky voice. Before the fall, she would swing with abandon, lost in the feeling of flying through the air, for an hour or more until I or her other mom had to go do something else. It makes me so sad that she hasn’t done that since she crashed.

I know it’s only been ten or so days. I know this will likely pass in time. Still, it’s the first time I’ve seen Toddler shaken in this way and it gives me pause.

One of the truths of parenthood is that, at some point or another, our kids will encounter something difficult we won’t be able to protect them from. And then another difficult thing, and another, and another. Life is a series of challenges and joys, and we swing between the two — arcing through the days like so many chaotic pendula.

Seeing as Toddler is only 2.5 years old, this is the first time I’ve been worried about the lasting impact of a scary event on her psyche. For Big Kid, well, there have been plenty of opportunities to worry about how she’s retaining the struggles of everyday life. Big Kid is neurodivergent, so the struggles are mighty abundant for her. She’s living in a world that’s built to fit a different kind of brain than hers.

She struggles with school environments, with sitting at the table, with controlling her bursts of elation or anger or frustration or sorrow. My wife and I have learned to take these aberrations in stride. So what if she eats most of her meal while climbing from one windowsill to another? She’s eating.

As a result, I’ve put in quite a few hours trying to convince myself that (a) my children are resilient, and (b) whatever struggles they face will not scar them for life. I’ve pretty much gotten those two concepts into my head. Mostly, though, I’m trying to accept the idea that I have the parenting skills to help them navigate whatever comes their way.

At this point, I want to be clear about my profound privilege. My children are living in a pretty safe neighborhood, where they attend good schools. My wife and I are both gainfully employed; we can provide them with clothes, food, and activities. We own our home and do not face the threat of homelessness. We have health insurance, thanks to the aforementioned employment.

Crucially, and in contrast to many people I love, we do not live under the specter of war. Unlike my sister, my cousins, my besties — no to mention scores of other Israeli, Palestinian, Lebanese, and Iranian parents — I do not lie awake worrying what my children will retain from months of air raid sirens, or explosions, or hunger, or ambient terror changing the very atmosphere in which they move through their days.

This is a blessing. I try not to feel too guilty about it. After all, guilt helps no-one. It certainly doesn’t make anyone any safer.

While the scale is different, though, I think what we all hope and want is inherently the same. I want to help my children navigate their anxieties and fears, move through their challenges in a way that fosters resilience instead of internal fissures. I want to be the rock on which they lean in times of strife. I want to be their guide through whatever their personal wilderness looks like. Don’t all parents want this, regardless of locale and circumstance?

I was a teen in Jerusalem during the second intifada, and those years were indelibly marked by terror and loss. My peers and I forged our understanding of the world in the fires of exploding busses and cafes. I also learned something else I won’t forget in a hurry, though. I learned my parents will always do everything they can to keep me safe, they will always rush to my side when I’m in danger, they will always try to explain the inexplicable to me. Decades hence, these lessons have remained hardwired in my own psyche.

This morning, Toddler got up at 6:00 am, which is not an hour I accept as legitimate. Still, I stumbled down the stairs with her and peeled stickers, one-by-one, so she could stick them on construction paper. And when she panicked because I left the room for a moment (to get a glass of water), I kept my voice soft and said, “Hey, baby, it’s ok. Mama will always come back.”

I know her anxieties will subside in time. Until, that is, another event freaks her out again. Then, we will move through that moment as well. I will try to be patient with all the little habits she has that make her feel better about the world — closing all the doors, wearing her witch hat everywhere (see above), locking the garbage can. I will try to keep my voice calm, always reminder her that my wife and I are here.

The world is scary. There are wars, and hatred, and brick patios to fall on, face-first. But we can work to make it better. And we can love our families profoundly enough so the love and security become the imprint, not just the fear.

Sending you love,

Mikhal

Hey there! Welcome to the Chaos Palace is a space uplifting ADHD, queerness, Judaism, and how to find opportunities for growth & creativity in the messiness of life.

If you liked this post (and I hope you did!) it would be great if you shared this post with someone you think might get a kick out of it or just clicked the little heart button. That makes the algorithm send my words to other folks who might enjoy ‘em. Or not! Feel free to just read! That’s huge, too, and very appreciated. Thanks ever so much.