The other day, I fell down at Clare’s school. It was a combination of wet weather, heels and a useless pair of ankles, that allowed hundreds of school kids, their parents, guardians, domestic helpers and drivers witness me making the unglamourous drop to my bum. I tried to be graceful about it, but in doing so, I sprained my back and gashed my knee.
My daughter switched into crisis management mode and kept on checking if I was OK. She held my hand tightly to make sure I didn’t fall again (and also because I kept on squeezing her hand because I was in pain, and she thought that I’d feel better by returning the favor). She then noticed blood dripping down my leg, took out the tissue paper from her bag and cleaned me up.
Only after the drama was over, and after she slipped out of crisis management mode, did Clare say to me, “Mum, I actually don’t like blood.” And started squirming and making faces, just like a little kid would.
I am so proud of my daughter for being a fixer. She’s a doer. She is a little champ.
These days, she holds my hand where it’s wet, to make sure that I don’t fall down.
She’s my little hero.