SINGAPORE – It took only seconds. We’d just finished breakfast of finger foods, carrots and pears, along with sweet potato puree. I was loading the dishwasher and singing The Wheels on the Bus, while my daughter Happy, then nine-months-old, swayed in a mechanical swing, clumsily clapping her chubby hands. Then came the shriek, followed by a pitiful wail. Spinning round, I found her pink-clad frame face down on the hardwood floor, her head resting atop the swing’s metal base. Lunging over, I hugged Happy’s trembling body, as her miserable cry amplified. Blood circled the swollen rim of her lower lip as more blood oozed down her chin: she was a baby Rocky Balboa!
I was alone, hands visibly shaking, mind racing: Why was there so much blood? Does she have a concussion? Should I go to the doctor? How did I ever let this happen?