Jessica shares about motherhood, sacrifice, and learning when to protect our children—and when to let them stumble and grow on their own.
Over ten years ago, I visited Mexico with our firstborn. It was just him and me, so he could know the land that saw me grow up. We visited family and friends and enjoyed the simple joys of summer, like going to the albercas on hot afternoons.
I loved doing that as a little girl—getting ready to spend the day at what felt like a mix between public pools and nature’s own water stream right beside it. We’d have a carne asada and spend the afternoon surrounded by family and friends, talking about everything and nothing all at once. The important part was simply being together, resting from the busy week, and enjoying the weekend.
This time around, I was a mom.
I got to watch my little boy experience that same simple happiness that water brings. Spending time with family and my childhood friend filled me with the kind of joy that makes a trip unforgettable.
And then, in a twist of events, while holding my son, I slipped and fell.
I was standing near one of the pools with my three-year-old in my arms when I stepped on a single slick tile in the corner. In an instant, a rush of worries flooded my mind and I had to decide, in a split second, what to do. My only thought was protecting my son from harm.
I didn’t know if, by falling into the pool, I’d be able to keep him safe in the water or if I could let go of him gently enough for him to land on his feet. My instinct was simple: fall on my knees instead.
Unfortunately, the surface was concrete and gravel.
One of my knees was badly hurt. It was painful, but my baby didn’t have a single scratch. Mission accomplished, I thought. I was hurting, but proud to have protected my little one.
We still enjoyed our vacation, and I even came home with a souvenir from the experience—a scar on my body.
Fast forward to early April of this year, and something similar happened again. This time, it was our two-year-old.
We were walking into a store for gardening supplies with him in my arms when I missed the smallest, most insignificant step. Suddenly, there I was again, losing another battle with gravity while carrying a child.
Same priority. Different child.
Afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the possible multiverses where I apparently keep “finding” ways to fall while holding one of my children. The possibilities feel endless.
Just like his older brother a decade ago, this little one walked away completely unharmed. Mamá protected her baby once again.
Meanwhile, I fell flat on my stomach while somehow managing to lower him gracefully onto the concrete without a single boo boo as we landed. I can’t say the same for my knees, hand, and elbow. Honestly, it made me grateful to work remotely and not have to explain my silly (read: dumb) fall to coworkers.
Emotionally, I’m fine. Physically? A little scarred.
But now I feel like it’s somehow more likely to keep happening.
As I reflect on these moments and the small sacrifices I’ve made for my children, I can’t help but think there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect them from danger—whether physical or emotional.
But the older they get, the more I realize they will need to experience some falls on their own.
I wish I could walk beside them every step of the way, but some journeys only teach their lessons when traveled alone. That’s a tough pill to swallow.
And I know those journeys will only become more difficult as they grow older. I hope I’ll be ready to let them face the challenges they need to face when the time comes.
Finding the right balance is tricky.
Especially now, when there is so much of everything—technology, information, forums, activities. Even having too many opportunities and options can become overwhelming.
Please pray for me.
I remember one occasion when we came across what looked like a small rock collection made up of different materials. One piece in particular caught one of my children’s attention: a shiny, gold-looking chunk of painted concrete with textured flecks.
One of our kids (who shall remain unnamed to avoid future complaints) became absolutely convinced he had discovered real gold.
I gently told him I didn’t think that was the case, but I couldn’t convince him otherwise. Despite my best efforts, he proudly took it to school to show everyone his “treasure.”
At that point, I knew I had to let this one play out on its own.
That afternoon, he came home embarrassed.
“Mami,” he said sadly, “this is fool’s gold.”
I knew he was putting extra emphasis on the fool part.
But in that moment, he learned something important: maybe his elementary-school-aged mind didn’t know quite as much as he thought it did.
Hugs were in order at that time, and now, you bet I remind him of it when he’s about to make less than ideal decisions where others might take him for a fool. ¿Pero qué va a saber la mamá, right?
