The Splinter

She's semi-limping around the house.

"What's wrong with your foot?" I ask.

"It hurts a little."

"Can I look at it?"

"Yes, but don't touch it Mommy."

"Okay...It looks like you have a splinter. See how there's a little black line there--"

"DON'T TOUCH IT!!! It will hurt SO much if you touch it."

"Do you want me to get it out so it will feel better?"

"No. I can just walk like this." She demonstrates, walking with her foot turned sideways so the part with the splinter doesn't touch the ground.

It's awkward to see. Kind of painful actually. I sit, watching her normally carefree stride become this unnatural, foot turned sideways, clumsy gait.

"Can we get a band-aid to put on it? That will make it feel better," she says, with hope in her four-year-old face.

"You can have a band-aid, but I don't think it will feel better until we get the splinter out."

"I think it will," she says with confidence.

It doesn't. So later in the day, I'm sitting, holding her foot as she cries, removing the splinter with tweezers, and as soon as we're done she wants me to hold her and help dry her tears. Of course I do. We put a little antibiotic ointment on the wound, and a Dora the Explorer band-aid and all is well (or at least a whole lot better). The next day she grins as she dances and says, "Mommy, isn't my foot SO much better, now?"

I can't help but think how much like my wounded little girl I can be sometimes. Maybe it's not physical, but spiritual, emotional. There's something like a splinter just beneath the surface. It's uncomfortable, often even painful. I may let someone close enough to see that it's there, but I'd really rather they not touch it. I make excuses for why I don't just deal with it and get it out, but it alters my "walk". I might keep it for so long that I forget that it's really not a part of how I was intended to be, until it's removed.

Then, like my little girl, I notice how much better everything can be without the splinters, and I dance.

Saying "goodbye" to comfort

Sweet Annie,

Today your pacifier "broke" and you placed it into the trash can before nap time and reminded me that Daddy promised you a new baby doll from the store to mark this milestone.

I then helped you get cozy in your crib with your favorite blanket, walked out of the room, and listened to you cry and call, "OOOOHHHHH, DADDY.....Oooooohhhhh, Daddy..." for the next hour and a half. I came in periodically to offer a little hug, dry your tears, and help you get cozy again. Then I would walk away, still close enough to hear your discomfort, but far enough that you managed to calm yourself until you could sleep.

This wasn't easy for me, but I know it's what is best for you in the long run. I've done this before, many times, with you and your older siblings, and I'm certain that I'll do it many more times before you are all grown. I make a conscious choice to put aside temporary comfort for long term gain. I weigh the "opportunity cost" and I decide.

Today it's the loss of the pacifier and the instant comfort that comes along with it. With your big brother it's removing the training wheels from his bike, watching him swerve and fall in frustration several times, before he finally masters riding a 2-wheeler independently. With your older sister it's working through the uncomfortable and sometimes awkward silence while I wait for her to respond to someone's question or greeting.

I know it would often be easier, for the moment, to just get a new pacifier and let you drift to sleep quickly, put the training wheels back on the bike to avoid skinned knees and frustration, or answer the question while someone looks timidly from behind my leg.

For you, I don't just want what seems easiest. I want what is best. I want you to learn to deal appropriately with discomfort when it leads to growth. I don't want to intentionally cause you to suffer, but I won't protect you from suffering when I know there is a greater benefit just over the horizon.

Like today, when you are uncomfortable and suffering, I will be close.

I will experience your discomfort as only a parent can. I will wait, as you work through it. I was there today when you finally lay still, except for the occasional shudder, with your eyes closed over tear-streaked cheeks.

I will celebrate when you reap the benefit of persevering.

This was not easy. This was not pleasant. This was not fun. But, this was good.