Jacob Glassner

Going from zero to two kids in less than two years changes your perspective on things.

You gain a new appreciation for your parents and everything they did for you over the years. You realize why your dad seemed to be in a bad mood on vacation, why you had to go to bed when it was still daylight in the summertime and why eating at a sit-down restaurant was a rarity.

You also learn to extend grace for your parents’ mistakes, especially when you make the same mistakes yourself years later.

When I was about 10 years old, I had a sleepover with my cousin Tony. Filled with Friday night excitement, we gathered around the TV to watch “Sidekicks,” which starred Ernie Reyes Jr., a pint-sized martial artist who went around jump-kicking bad guys in the face.

After watching the show, we did what most boys our age would do: We started karate fighting.

Hopped up on Big Red, I yelled “hiya” and launched a jump-kick attack on my unsuspecting older sister Jill. The kick inflicted instant pain … on me. My big toe made a cracking sound as it landed squarely on her knee, and I fell to the floor crying in pain. (Jill was completely fine by the way—my toe didn’t even leave a mark.)

I tried to suck it up and be brave and not cry in front of my cousin, but my toe really hurt. I was pretty sure it was broken. As a mother of four, my mom had seen countless cuts, bumps, bruises and sprains. She checked out my swollen toe and sent me along to hobble behind Tony and my younger brother Daniel as they waged war with the Russians.

That night, the pain got to the point where I couldn’t sleep. Mom administered some Tylenol and sent me back to bed. The next day after my cousin went home and after nearly 24 hours of me whining, Mom took me to the emergency room. The diagnosis? A fractured big toe.

Mom felt terrible that she made me wait so long to go to the doctor, and I think I always kind of felt like she was unsympathetic.  

But fast-forward nearly three decades, and I found myself in the same situation.

If my 19-month-old daughter Novella is awake, she is going full speed. Take your eye off her for a second, and she’ll be coloring on a wall or climbing up the stairs—but I’m not making excuses because most kids her age are probably that way.

Two weeks ago, while we were vacationing in Hilton Head, South Carolina, Novella fell off a couch. She’s proficient at getting on and off couches, and it wasn’t a giant man cave couch—just a regular sized couch. I picked her up off the floor and held her close, but she continued to cry.

I should have known something was amiss when she laid her head on my shoulder and didn’t want me to let her go because she typically squirms out of my grasp and runs off when I pick her up.

My wife Mandy and I thought she hit her head, so we kept an eye on her to make sure she didn’t have a concussion. We let her watch the Disney movie “Frozen” on our iPad because it seemed to calm her down. Several hours later, Mandy noticed that Novella wasn’t using her left arm.

Novella didn’t fall very far, so we thought she had sprained her wrist. Later that night, we packed up our bags, loaded our car and set off on the 650-mile drive back to Louisville. We figured Novella and Aiden, our 3-month-old son, would sleep most of the way if we drove through the night. Boy, were we wrong.

Novella cried and whined for much of the trip. The only solace we could find was letting her watch “Frozen” in the backseat—and she watched it at least a half a dozen times. The songs  “Let It Go” and “Love Is an Open Door” are pretty much burned into my memory now. Mandy tricked Novella into taking some Tylenol by adding it into a bottle of milk, but the little girl who normally goes to bed before sunset pulled an all-nighter.

Around 6:30 in the morning, she finally fell asleep. At that point, we both knew we needed to take Novella to see a doctor, but we were still 300 miles from home. Exhausted, we pushed on, and after more stops than I can remember—for feedings, diaper changes, gas, sleep and Gold Star Chili—we arrived in Louisville. The 11-hour trip took us just a hair over 15 hours.

I took Novella to an immediate care center shortly after we got home. By then, she seemed like her normal happy self. As we sat in the hospital exam room, Novella started using her hurt arm, and I began to think we had overreacted to her injury.

After examining Novella, the doctor ordered an X-ray, and I was shocked when he gave me the results 10 minutes later: Novella’s arm was broken. Guilt flooded me. I felt rotten. How could I have put my sweet little girl through such pain and misery?

But on the drive back home, I put that guilt behind me. Parents have enough to deal with—they don’t need to be burdened with extra guilt.

I’ve come to realize that as a parent, you do your best, but you are still going to make mistakes.

A parent’s most important job is bringing up children “in the training and instruction of the Lord” (Ephesians 6:4), and my parents did a fine job of that. I hope to do the same.

So, Mom—I’m sure you’re reading this—I’m sorry for blaming you for my broken toe.