"Claire has a black eye!" I announce.
"What?" George says, trying to figure out what I'm talking about.
"See there…at the corner of her left eye…It's, like, all black and purplish," I trail off waiting for an explanation about how it got there.
"It wasn't there yesterday," George says, nonchalantly. "She probably ran into a corner of a door or something."
"Uh-huh," I say, half listening to him, half imagining my daughter running into a wall.
Thinking of my daughter hurting herself is horrifying by itself. Add to it the idea that no one was watching her closely enough to have witnessed what happened to her. Then I worry about how this disaster's going to reflect on ME.
"What's everyone going to think?" my mind races. "That bruise positively screams 'Mommie Dearest'. It might as well spell out the word 'ABUSE' in black and blue!"
Just as quickly as I get myself worked up, I come to another realization.
"Wait, what's going on here? I'm more worried about myself than my daughter! 'Mommie Dearest' redux," I think.
Now, I feel even worse. I imagine my daughter at the therapist's office circa 2040 talking about how she lived her childhood as an extension of her mother. Or worse, writing a tell-all book about it.
At this point…Claire has a black eye, I look like I don't take care of her, and an adult life on the couch awaits my daughter.
"A triple crown day for me," I think. "Oh, wait. Reminder to self! It's not about ME…"