Nothing makes me want to burst into a fountain of sloppy tears more than seeing my daughter hurt. My heart gets pulled up into my throat and makes me choke, and I find myself wheezing for air. I get tunnel vision. All activity stops dead in its tracks. Seeing her injured just about kills me.

I don’t know how it happened, but Sunday at my parents, right after I managed to down half my weight in cheese and olives, but just before the Superbowl started, my daughter fell and hurt her leg. I didn’t see it happen. She was wearing her pink cowboy boots, and was surrounded by her doting cousins and aunts, who she especially likes to show off for. Apparently she got a little cheeky, and tried to defy the unforgiving laws of gravity. I was told she just kind of fell and her leg kind of went out, and she kind of landed on top of it.

You wouldn’t have known she was hurt by her expression. She was her usual kamikaze self, and too busy getting into three things at once to cry about a silly old malfunctioning leg. But she was limping badly, and every few steps her leg would buckle underneath her, and she would fall over. Watching her stuggle made every cell in my body grimace. I followed her around, grim-faced, observing carefully to see if I noticed any improvement. I didn’t. She continued her crazy cock-eyed walk. Then every few steps, her leg buckled again, and down she went. She looked up at me as though to say “What the heck is going on? I had this walking thing figured out just a minute ago..Help me!�

There have been a few occasions since having Maggie when I have wanted someone to tell me what to do. When my first instinct was to freeze up. Times when I wanted to flop to the floor and assume the fetal position. Times when I felt frightened and cowardly. Times when I desperately wanted someone else to take charge and tell me what to do. When your baby is sick or hurt, and you are scared and trying not to panic, a minute lasts an hour. That strange pocket of time when you know something is wrong, but haven't yet decided how severe it is, or what to do about it. It's easy to be overwhelmed because that sick or injured little human is the center of your universe. I don't think there is anything more frightening to a mother than the sight of her injured child. Then the realization sets in. I am the mommy. The buck stops at me. And you have to make a decision. You have to stay calm, take charge, and do the right thing.

There was the time she couldn’t keep fluids down and became sunken-eyed and lethargic. It was awful. I wasn't sure if I was making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe she was fine, and I was a crazy overzealous mother. I agonized for a minute (although it felt like a year) and decided to err on the side of caution. We ended up taking her to the doctor who sent us right to the hospital so she could be treated for dehydration. There was the time we had to decide whether or not to fit her for a helmet for the worsening flat spot on the back of her head. Maggie had developed Plagiocephaly (flat-head) on the right side of her skull. One ear was crawling up higher and higher on one side and her forehead was starting to stick out. The doctor told us we could do it, or not do it. Again, I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but the decision was ours. We ended up deciding to have her fitted for a helmet which she wore for months, and her head rounded out eventually.

Here I was again, floundering between overreacting and taking her to the emergency room, or waiting it out to see if her leg got better on its own. I waffled back and forth, and finally decided I couldn’t take it another minute. The limping was tearing my heart to pieces. My perfect little girl just wasn’t walking right, and I had to find out if it was something big, or something little. My sister Betsy offered to come along, and off we went to go to Urgent care.

Maggie was not the least bit fazed by her injury. The waiting room had an enormous fish tank. Maggie’s idea of the heaven on earth is any place there is fish tank. Betsy parked the car while I got registered and tried to keep ahold of Maggie, who screamed and flailed in agony, wailing and extending her arms desperately towards the towering tank of her chosen creatures. Her fishies. Betsy arrived just as the child's head was about to explode, and took the sobbing toddler from my arms and mercifully, towards the tank where she smiled and stood, mouth agape. Mesmerized, she repeated “Shishee! Shishee!� Over and over again.

We were called in to a room where a rather stern nurse ordered us NOT to spin Maggie in the Doctors chair. By the way, any doctor or nurse who leaves you in a room for an extended period of time with a toddler, and then instructs you to not let said toddler play with something that is A. within their reach, and B. utterly irresistible to them, should be beaten within an inch of their life with a tongue depressor. And a rubber glove.

The doctor eventually walked in and checked out wee Madge. He pulled her legs this way and that, and observed her limp for himself. He bent her knees and rotated her hips, and finally pronounced her not broken or maimed. I was happy, if not slightly embarrassed by my apparent over-reaction to a twisted ankle. I could have a bone sticking out of my own leg, and I would refuse to go to the emergency room, but I am not taking any chances with that sweet girl. I needed to know that she was okay.

I know that wasn't the last time. There are many cuts and bruises in our future. I can handle cuts and bruises just fine on my own. I can handle the pedestrian fever or vomit like a seasoned veteran. I predict, though, that each time I find myself in that bizarre time warp of uncertainty, trying to decide how seriously to take the medical emergency at hand, I will err on the side of caution. I have no problem running the risk of being accused of having Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy. I am just fine with being crazy, as long as I know my baby girl is okay.