I recently attended my grandson Devin’s Little League game, something that has become one of my favorite things to do these days. I sat on the sidelines in my lawn chair enjoying the game with Devin’s parents, Cassia and her husband (my son) Jesse, and Devin’s younger brother Ashton. One of the things that four-year-old Ashton and I like to do is to wrestle and roughhouse together. I’m usually careful not to let things get out of hand but accidents sometimes do happen, and the other day, one did. I was on the grass on my hands and knees and Ashton was jumping on and off my back.

The third time he jumped on me, he fell off before he could steady himself and hurt his back. He was in pain and since he hasn’t (yet) learned to stifle his tears, he cried and freely called out how much “it hurts.” His mom hurried over and we both tried to comfort the little guy. I felt terrible, not just guilty for not preventing the mishap, but because if there’s anything more painful than seeing your own child in pain, it’s seeing your grandchild in pain. And what hurts even more than that is feeling responsible for having contributed to his pain.