You hear a crash.  A scream.  You see a little blood, some scrapes.
 
Every adult has a different way to handle it.
 
As soon as they’re walking until, in my case so far 31 and 348/365, children are hurting themselves.  Falling down stairs.  Off the swing.  Into the car door.
 
Of course once they grow up and begin to hurt themselves with drugs, sex, booze, and the Internet, you become a little powerless.  But as a parent or caretaker, you still wield a lot of say in the next few minutes after a trauma and exactly how traumatic it might be.
 
I for one absolutely refuse to make a big fuss over it.  A child could come to me holding one arm completely detached from their body and I’d say, “No biggie.  Let’s get cleaned up!”
 
Maybe it would be different if it was one of my own, but I doubt it.  My reaction comes from my experience growing up and absolutely hating the fuss.  The running over and bending and worried voices would inevitably get my water works started, convinced something worth crying over had been spilled rather than my precious dignity.  Again.

 
And then, as my tears streamed and my toes wiggled, I’d get asked in that chiding tone, “Are you crying because we came over and asked all these questions?”
 
Well, duh.
 
Until I ended up with a debilitating back that was so painful I’d sometimes dream of chewing metal, I never quite learned how to gauge or express my injuries.  (See:  that left ankle that if you put your hands on it and have had a briefing glance at a medical book, you shudder.  Evidently you cannot “walk off” every tendon and ligament tearing without some lasting effects.)
 
In high school, I babysat regularly for several neighborhood families, but the Shapiro’s were my favorite.  The dad was a lawyer who out of the blue one day asked, “You aren’t related to (insert grandpa’s name here), are you?”  The mom was known as one of the strictest history teachers in my school.  They had four well-behaved, imaginative, daughters.  The time I spent with them eats up a large chunk of the precious minutes I’ve spent seriously considering kids of my own.
 
There was one tomboy, but for the life of me I can’t remember her ever getting a serious injury.  Not that I was letting these girls run with scissors, but the youngest two especially were rather accident-prone.  Band-aids and Neosporin were the norm. 
 
As was the, “You’re OK!”  I learned very early on that imaginative girls could be sensitive and dramatic ones (oh, the irony!).  If I wanted to skip the screaming and the dying and the oh-god-the-agonies over a paper cut, I’d have to cut it off at the pass.  This worked exceedingly well.
 
This might make me sound incredibly unfeeling and callous towards hurt children.  I want to be clear that wasn’t the case at all.  I just feel strongly that dramatics don’t have a place in your wellness routine.  Especially with young children, it can be overwhelming to see their caretaker worked up and flustered which in turn leads to their outbursts.
 
One day, the second youngest fell down the last few stairs, anxious to join the hair salon on the couch.
 
“You’re OK!”
 
“…No, I’m not.”
 
It was such a brave, true voice.  I immediately assured her, “You’re right.  You’re not.  Let’s see what’s going on.” 
 
She needed nothing but a band-aid and Neosporin, albeit on her chin. Rather than crying, she just clung to me.  And I let her, as any child has a right to be comforted after a truly scary and painful event.  As any person should have that right.
 
I haven’t seen the Shaprios in years.  My mom used to see the father jogging when she walked the dog in the morning, but she thinks they’ve moved now.  That little girl is in her senior year of college.
 
But I think of that day a lot. 
 
I hope she still feels comfortable saying when she’s not OK.