Dearest Danjo,
On Saint Patrick's Day in the year Two Thousand and Twelve, you were bit by a dog. In the face.
Words can not express the feeling of and amount of guilt that consumed me this weekend. The playback of the scene, the images that fill my mind of your pain and tears, the sound of your screaming, the feeling of panic and helplessness, of your arms reaching out to me from your car seat as we drove to the ER. You calling my name over and over.
I should stop here to say two things.
One. You were calm and talking and back to yourself by the time we got to the ER. The doctor checked you out and you really are FINE. You're face is healing and your love of/lack of inhibition near furry animals remains unchanged.
Two. I know. I know. It wasn't my fault. Intellectually, I know that I cannot blame myself. I know there were so many factors, dog and human. I'm not spending my time replaying the scene to determine what could have been different. What's done is done. And Daddy and my family and everyone I know can tell me it wasn't my fault, but as I write this now, my eyes well with tears, thinking about the pain you experienced. And how my choices led up to it.
It was me who invited a rescue dog into our home.
I blame myself.
My naivete. I've never been given reason to consider how dangerous a dog can be. With the exception of one family dog, I've never personally known a large dog or, for that matter, any rescue dog that has been anything but sweet. The stories? Oh! That won't be me. Not my child.
My trusting personality. I trusted the woman, a stranger, who brought the dog. I trusted the dog.
My nonchalant parenting. I let you eat dirt. I'm not overly cautious. I'm not a helicopter mom. Or I wasn't on Saturday.
I should have done the impossible. I should have known. I should have been wary. I should have frozen time and thrown my body in front of yours. Thrown my arm up when you turned a corner, surprising the dog, the fear-biter who lunged at your tiny body.
I know what you and the People are thinking. There may be a share of I-Told-You-So-ers and What-a-Bad-Way-To-Learn-a-Lesson-ers. But, for the most part, People will say I'm being too hard on myself.
But, can you blame me?
It's my job to protect you. And I didn't. I couldn't.
I wish I could rewind time. That I never called the rescue organization. That I never wanted a dog in the first place. That I didn't put my desires before your well-being.
I suppose I'm being a little dramatical, so I'll stop. Soon.
But, until Saturday, I've never experienced the weight of this guilt, a mother's guilt. Because, I'm basically a perfect mother. Duh.
But, this feeling is so immense. So overwhelming. My sadness and sorrow. The aftertaste of adrenaline and fear. The tension that remains in my body, my hackles up, my inability to relax, to not feel physically sick at the thought of what happened.
And I can't speak for tomorrow or Friday or next year, but right now, in this moment, I cannot forgive myself.
I love you so much.
And I'm sorry your modelling career is ruined. I guess you'll have to use your brains.
Love you no matter what,
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