One night, I woke up to my then 4-year-old screaming, “MOMMY!! I NEED YOU MOMMY!!” I ran into his room, heart racing—he must have had a nightmare, or something was wrong. When I got to his room, he said, “Mom, I…” and paused with wide, worried eyes. In his hands, he held his favorite stuffed dragon, its wing hanging by a thread. The urgency in his voice came not from fear, but from concern for something he loved.
I sat down beside him, gently taking the dragon to examine the loose seam. The night-light cast soft shapes on the walls as he explained that the dragon “got hurt while flying too fast in his dream.” His imagination was vivid, full of adventure and possibility. I reminded him that even brave things sometimes need a little repair. He nodded, watching closely as I prepared to fix the toy.
With slow, careful stitches, I mended the dragon’s wing while he leaned against me, comforted by the familiar routine. He whispered questions about how things are repaired in real life, curious and thoughtful. I told him that taking care of what matters—both big and small—is part of growing up. When the final knot was tied, he smiled with pure relief. He hugged the dragon as though it were brand new again.