“Mom, my eye is killing me.”
From a far off distance, I heard Kyle’s plea for help. With a groggy groan, I roused myself out of the first waves of sweet sleep and sat up to examine him. Indeed, his right peeper appeared bloodshot and his cheek below was red and irritated from scratching.
I hopped out of bed, ran to the bathroom cabinet and searched for the eye drops. I found the tiny bottle and ripped off the wrapping. Sitting Kyle down I dumped a few drops in his sore eye.
I waited to hear, “Ahhhhh, thanks mom,” but it never came.
Instead Kyle started howling, “It burns, mom, it burns.”
Confused, I turned on the light and looked at the bottle. It said “Otic” Solution not “Optic” Solution.
“Otic” means ear not eye.
“Abort, Abort!”
We rushed Kyle to the sink to flush his eye out with water. Tim searched online for medical treatment and I prepared to go to the hospital and then the slammer.
Tears choked my stutters of rambling, “sorry, sorry, sorry.”
I patted Kyle’s back and ached with his every moan.
I could see the headlines. “Mother accidentally blinds budding football star with Otic Solution. Abuse Charges filed.”
Suddenly Tim yelled from the bedroom, “It says it’s a common accident. The medicine “neomycin” actually the same, just in a higher concentration for sensitive eyes. He’ll live. Just wash it out good.”
My son playfully glared at me with his good eye. “Nice mom, thanks for the love!”
Kyle went to bed and I fell back to sleep exhausted. It had been a long week. Kolby had a high fever for almost five days in a row and I was running on fumes from nursing her. But my sleep was troubled.
Mommy guilt was setting in. The fog of inner torment settled on my shoulders like a backpack.
Kyle’s eye was better in the morning and I sent him off to school somewhat relieved but feeling like a big loser.
When I sat down with my Bible I needed grace more than ever. My prayers went something like this: Jesus, I suck as I mom. I failed my kid. In my weakness and exhaustion I slipped. I’m supposed to be his rescuer. I remembered the day when I accidentally nipped his tiny finger as a baby with the nail trimmer. Every drop of blood tortured me. This moment felt strangely familiar.
Please, please, please help me climb out of this hole of self-abuse.
And then my solace came. Slowly, quietly and with stillness. Psalms of praise, thanksgiving and love.
I felt my shepherds gentle pat and knew everything would be ok.
I am so thankful for God’s unending grace and mercy to a troubled mother’s heart. It was just enough to get me through the day, although a few tears of remorse continued to cloud my vision.
Do you ever struggle with “mommy guilt” when you blow it?
