My heart was broken the other day. No, not broken – more like ripped from my chest thrown around, stomped on, and then smashed. You see, my daughter’s heart was broken and watching her pain was almost more than I could stand.
It was one of those friend things. One of those “I was the only one who didn’t get invited,” “No one picked me to be on their team,” “She said she’d play with me but then played with Sally instead” sort of heartbreaks. We’ve all been there and it’s awful. But it’s worse when you watch it as the mom.
It’s worse because I should have prevented it – or wished I could have anyway. I should have protected her, kept a closer eye on the company she was keeping, or taught her to shrug off this kind of slight (as if that’s possible). It’s worse because not only am I watching her cry and hurt, but because I know it won’t be the last time she feels this way. There will be sleepovers she’s not included in, dances she doesn’t have a date to, friends for whom she can never measure up. And it’s worse because it reminds me of all my own heartbreaks over the same things.
So we cried together and hugged and loved, and tried to make the best of the day. What else is there to do other than to show her that pain happens, and that we move ahead – maybe a little stronger, or tougher, or more wary – and that her mom will always be there to comfort her when she’s hurt again.