It wasn’t a fear of heights that kept me unsteady at the top of the 8-foot ladder, nor was it the task at hand. In fact, I’d faced bigger challenges around the house—clogged drains, stubborn stains, the occasional extraordinarily huge dish pile-up that drives me insane. But today, the nemesis was gross, quick, and annoyingly persistent: a cockroach that had decided the high corner of my family room wall was a perfect hangout.
My five children do not enjoy most bugs, but they truly hate roaches.
Armed with a broom in my hand and a feigned coolness on my face, I tried to get eye-level with the creature. The plan was simple: trap, smash, clean up the remnants and breathe a sigh of relief. I’d even steeled myself against the grossness factor, since my roommate stood poised at the bottom of the ladder to do the truly dirty work. But what I didn’t prepare for—what no one ever really thinks about—is that sometimes these critters… fly.
As if sensing my presence, the bug crawled out of eye view into a high built-in shelf where it could be safe from harm. As I began to bang the shelf with the broom, there was no activity. All was silent. The next few moments were a blur. After the next bang, the cockroach sprang from its perch, its wings unfolding in a surprise I hadn’t imagined. My heart lurched, my yelp rang out, and gravity did the rest.
The fall wasn’t graceful. My leg smacked against the ladder, twisting awkwardly before I hit the ground—hard. First my back, then my neck, and finally, my head met both the window and the floor in a dizzying collision. The sound of impact was followed by the hiss of our electronic shades, which I’d almost yanked down on my way. Everything felt like it happened in slow motion, except for the sharp pain that jolted through my body, making me realize immediately that something wasn’t right.
“Mommy!” a chorus of voices rang out.
I tried to focus on my kids, staring wide-eyed from the dining room table. Five little faces frozen in varying degrees of shock. The oldest, ever the concerned caregiver, got up to come and see if I was okay. One of them had only one immediate concern…”Is the bug dead? Did you get it?” Still another, finding the entire disaster hilarious, started to laugh out loud. But most of them seemed pretty anxious, unsure if I was getting back up.
Meanwhile, the cockroach—determined to finish what it started—continued its assault. It darted toward me as I lay dazed on the floor, banging into my chest before scrambling down my leg. I could feel the room spinning, my head throbbing, but there was something about the bug’s relentless attack that added insult to injury.
Then, like a whirlwind, my roommate appeared. Her face flushed with both anger and worry, she snatched the shoe and began slapping wildly at the bug. “I told you not to do this!” she yelled between swats, her frustration echoing in the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the bug met its fate beneath her shoe (and the cleanup ensued).
Now it was my turn. Getting up from the floor was a whole different kind of comedy. Each movement was calculated, slow, and deliberate. I was terrified something might be sprained—or worse— even broken. Every muscle in my body protested, and the pounding in my head grew worse with each attempt to move. The kids watched with bated breath, and I tried to keep my face neutral, even though it felt like my body had betrayed me.
By the time I was upright, I was already dizzy and lightheaded, the early signs of a concussion that would linger for a full eight days. But what hit me hardest wasn’t just the pain—it was the looks on their faces. I’d traumatized my roommate and at least a few of the kids. They never wanted to see me hurt, never wanted to see me in pain like this.
“I’m fine,” I tried to reassure them, but my body screamed otherwise. Later, when the adrenaline wore off, it would feel like I’d been hit by a truck. But for now, I had to keep it together, to be strong for them, even if I felt anything but.
****
As adults, and especially as parents, we often fall into the trap of thinking we can control everything around us. We believe we know what’s best to guide our families through life’s hurdles. But the truth is, so much of life is beyond our control, and we have to learn to relax into that reality—to trust that the chaos, and the unexpected moments, are a part of the process.
That day, all I could think about was how much my kids hate bugs, especially cockroaches. The thought of it escaping and disappearing into some dark corner of the house was worse for them than seeing the bug itself. I was trying to control the situation—too many factors all at once—and it led to results I hadn’t planned for.
But what I hadn’t anticipated was the lesson this disaster would teach all of us. Yes, I made a bad decision, and my kids watched me pay for it, but in doing so, I showed them something important.
Adults make mistakes too.
We don’t always have the right answers, and sometimes we miscalculate. We try to control the factors and circumstances of our lives, but sometimes we act unreasonably and suffer the consequences. Life isn’t always black and white. Sometimes it’s gray, or rainbow-colored. And we will have to deal with the entire color spectrum of reality that comes our way.
It’s tough letting them see me stumble, but in the end, I gave them a real-life example of how we’re all just figuring things out—no matter how grown-up we seem.
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