In 2010, I found myself outside a hotel in sunny California with my 2-year-old son, Ethan. He was fascinated by a flowerbed, and as the sprinklers sprayed water, he wanted to run through them. I gently told him it was time to head inside, holding his hand when he suddenly went limp, just as he often did when he didn’t want to comply. In that moment, I felt a sudden pop in his arm.
At that time, I didn’t understand that a toddler’s joints—especially the elbow—can easily shift, just like a loose shoelace. When Ethan cried out in pain, his right arm drooping at his side, panic set in. We were visiting relatives in California, and I was outside the hotel, trying to keep Ethan quiet while my partner, Sarah, caught a quick nap.
As a young father at 25, I assumed I had caused serious harm to my son. Until that point, Ethan seemed tough, always bouncing back from tumbles. Yet, deep down, I feared I might have done something irreversible. It was my first encounter with the overwhelming anxiety that often accompanies new parenthood.
Before Ethan was born, I was inundated with stories of parental missteps leading to tragedy. My early days as a dad were laced with feelings of inadequacy. As a teenager, I had my fair share of trouble, and when my friends learned that I was going to be a father, some jokingly questioned my capability to raise a child. The fear of being unqualified loomed large, making every little setback feel like a major failure.
Outside the hotel, I looked at Ethan, tears rolling down his cheeks as his right arm hung lifelessly. I felt a wave of dread; I was relieved I hadn’t killed him, but the weight of potentially injuring him or even losing him was crushing.
I scooped him up and took him inside. Sarah was getting ready when I entered the room, and upon seeing her, Ethan tried to lift his left arm, clearly wanting to lift both but unable due to the pain. My heart broke at the sight. I had never truly grasped the depth of parental emotions until I became a father.
“What happened?” Sarah asked, concern in her voice. I explained everything—the limpness, the pop, and my fear that I had broken him.
“I honestly don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “Do you think it will just fix itself?”
Looking back now, the answer seems obvious: we should have gone to the doctor. But at that moment, I was overwhelmed. I had never taken him to the doctor for anything beyond a checkup, and our insurance wasn’t great. I was anxious about the costs and worried that the doctors might not believe my story, leading to a worst-case scenario where we’d lose custody of him.
All of this seems irrational in hindsight, but when a child is hurt, it’s easy to spiral into a whirlwind of emotions. As the years have passed and I’ve welcomed two more children into our family, I’ve learned to manage these situations better. But in that hotel room, as a new parent, I felt utterly lost.
Sarah, usually the calm one, held Ethan until he settled down. “Let’s call a nurse,” she suggested.
“We can do that?” I was taken aback.
“Of course,” she replied, as if I were out of touch with reality. “There’s a number on the back of our insurance card.”
I made the call, and while I explained what happened, Ethan started to move around the room, seeming to recover, aside from his arm still hanging limply. The nurse explained that it was likely a condition called Nursemaid’s elbow—a common injury in toddlers caused by a partial dislocation.
“It’s very common. Take him to urgent care, and they can fix it,” she reassured me.
As I began to understand this injury, I learned that it was something many parents encounter. It can result from simply holding a child’s hand as they go limp, tripping, or even rolling over awkwardly. Before long, it became a routine part of our lives. But at that moment, I was still grappling with the fear of the unknown.
Just then, as I was on the phone with the nurse, Ethan tripped and fell on his shoulder, and suddenly he was able to use his right arm again. I told the nurse, who responded happily, “That’s great! Sounds like it popped back in.”
What a relief! Yet, a line from a classic comedy popped into my mind, highlighting how absurd the situation felt.
Feeling vulnerable, I confided in the nurse, “This is so embarrassing. I feel like a bad parent. I mean, I love my kid. Am I doing something wrong?”
She chuckled gently, and her response stuck with me. “Taking care of little ones isn’t easy. They can be like a ball bouncing around, and despite your best efforts, they still get hurt. The fact that you care so much about his well-being shows you’re doing just fine.”
Her words brought tears to my eyes—not just because Ethan was okay, but because I needed that affirmation. Maybe you need to hear it too: parenting is difficult, and we’re all just trying our best.