When Peter was two years old, he was running around in the nursery room at the YMCA and whacked his chin on a table. I was teaching water aerobics at the time, and had to cut class short so I could take him to the clinic and stop the bleeding. Since he was such a squirmy little guy, he had to be strapped to a papoose board before the doctor could do the stitches. He was not happy about it; in fact, he screamed more about being restrained than he did about the needle.

And, oh my God, it was as if someone punched me in the stomach. I wanted so badly to change places with him, and I guess that’s part of what being a parent is all about. Your kids’ pain hurts you more than anything you ever imagined.

I went through the same thing when Moon was tested for insulin problems. My baby, who rarely cries (because she apparently used up most of her tears during her first three months of life), broke down sobbing when the second draw missed her vein.

It was horrible, but watching her suffer emotional pain is even worse. She had a horrible day this week, one which made her doubt herself and worry that she might never be loved (parents don’t count). It was heart-rending, and I eventually succumbed to my own tears. Was that bad? I just felt for her, because adolescent angst is still so fresh for me. The years just roll away from my mind and heart.

The bad day is behind her now, and I daresay things are even better than they were before. But I know there will be more roller coaster rides ahead, and as much as I’d love to spare her (and Peter) from life’s pains, all I can really do is just be there on the ground, waiting.