Barbara and I have fairly similar parenting beliefs. We understand that kids get nicks and cuts, that sometimes they're sick and that it's okay if they eat a little dirt now and again. In fact, we've been heartened by recent studies showing that kids don't eat enough dirt these days.

And we've learned to curb our outbursts when Max topples over (from a seated position). Even when he whacks his head on the hardwood floor (which, interestingly, seems to be less of a jolt than crashing onto your typical carpeted floor), we simply look at him and tell him he's alright. Generally he agrees and then quickly scrambles back up to sit.

Last Wednesday, Max and I were sitting on the front steps, waiting for his mommy to come home from work. We do this often. It's about dinner time for Max--which can make him somewhat antsy--and the great outdoors is a great calming device. There's so much to see that's different than that same old same old inside the house. That afternoon, Max took a particular interest in something on the brick sidewalk beneath the steps. When my grip around him wouldn't allow him to get as close as he liked, he decided to leap. Not expecting horizontal movement, my hands were holding him down by his thighs. He slid right out and crashed face-first onto the sidewalk.

As falls go, this one wasn't much bigger than his inside ones. But brick is somewhat less forgiving than wood, and Max immediately signaled his displeasure at my failure to keep him safe.

He was wailing like a banshee. I picked him up quickly and saw that he'd sustained a pretty good knot on his forehead over his right eye--about an inch and a half in diameter--and scratches beneath that same eye. I could tell that he was going to have a black eye.

Immediately I considered a run to the hospital, as it was too late to dash to the doctor's office. But in the back of my head I wondered what harried ER folks might make of a guy bringing in a baby with a shiner. Hmm. That short thought was enough to make me wait a minute and see if Max calmed down. He did, after only 30 seconds or so. Then I took him into the bathroom to wash the leaves and other debris from his wounds and let him see his new, albeit temporary, appearance. His eyes immediately found the bruises and scratches on his face. He laughed like crazy.

Then Barbara arrived. In rapid succession, we consulted an old Mayo Clinic book on child health, called my mom and then called the after-hours nurse consultant provided by our pediatrician. All signs were that Max would be fine, but he needed to be watched as a precaution.

Which turned out to be unnecessary, as most precautions are by definition. Come Thursday morning, the bump had receded significantly and the scratches were already beginning to heal. We took a couple pictures of his bruised face, but those weren't really indicative of how he'd looked right after the accident. I suppose that's alright. It's one thing to accept the occasional knock and bruise. It's quite another to fetishize your child's injuries.

Anyway, now it's Sunday and you can hardly tell Max was hurt at all. The bump is still slightly raised on his forehead, but his hair covers it and anyway, there is very little visual evidence of his fall. The scabs from the scratches have all but gone away. Not once in the last four days has Max exhibited anything but exemplary behavior. For a kid who can be temperamental at times, he's been astonishingly happy. Giddy, even.

And I'm glad. Because while I don't mind Max getting hurt, it does truly bother me if he's hurt on my watch. After all, if I had been paying strict attention to what he was doing, I probably would have noticed him brace his feet against the back of the step and prepare to jump. But I'm human, and like Max I can be distracted by the many wonders of the outdoors. I was watching him, but not as closely as possible. I was holding him, but not in a way that would completely prevent him from getting out of my grasp.

And maybe that was alright. I mean, there's no way I should have let him fall on the sidewalk. I'm not excusing that. On the other hand, one thing that parents have to learn--even when their children are seven months old--is that children have their own lives to lead. That a parent can't prevent every possible pain a child might experience, and that more importantly, a parent shouldn't try to prevent every possible pain a child might experience. People learn from their mistakes, especially the ones that hurt.

Which isn't exactly the case here. Max didn't learn anything from his faceplant onto the sidewalk. When I sat him on the steps yesterday, he tried once again to grab a leaf on the sidewalk. He's not afraid of falling, and he may or may not remember the unpleasant thing that happened just a couple of days ago.

Maybe I learned something instead. I always thought it would be a relatively simple task to let Max live his own life and make his own mistakes. I'm a logical person. I understand that children must make their own way, even from a fairly young age. And yet I got a taste of how emotions can overrule logical philosophies. You know, I don't want Max to be hurt. Even though he will be. Time and again. There is a distinct part of me that would like to prevent all his future pain, even at the cost of his development as a complete person.

Like I said, he seems to have completely forgotten the incident. I never will. Perhaps that's what "this hurts me more than it could ever hurt you" really means.

Jon Worley figures his penance will be completed in a few years when Max reads this story and, in a fit of anger, says, "I know you don't love me! You dropped me on my head when I was a baby!"