Eighteen pairs of eyes focused on her and I could see the instant flush in her cheeks. She walked forward and took her seat in the single chair at the front of the room, her chosen book in hand. She looked terrified. Well, she also looked totally and completely adorable, but as her mother, I could definitely tell she was anxious about the experience ahead. Her legs swung back and forth in constant motion as the nervous energy released itself. I smiled and nodded my head in her direction, attempting to convey my parental encouragement without the use of words.

She started a bit fast and a little quiet, but after a page or two, she settled in. Her pace slowed and her voiced strengthened. She wasn’t as expressive as she would have been in her room at home, without an audience of five year olds surrounding her, but she sounded good . . . solid. She sounded like the fluent reader she was.

Secure in my daughter’s strong start, I pulled out my phone and began recording, a huge grin permanently stretched across my face as I tried to hold the phone steady. I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking, my own anxiety forcing its way through the confidence I’d tried so hard to emit on our drive over.

Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d do it, and hey, I had my reasons. Reason number one: I've listened to my daughter belt out songs at the top of her lungs for weeks around our house and then stand on stage for her school Christmas program like a deer . . . ahem, a reindeer . . . in headlights. Reason number two: Libby once spent several days with the varsity cheerleaders at her school preparing to participate in the homecoming pep rally along with most of the other girls in her kindergarten class. On the day of the pep rally, however, our little cheerleader turned into a chicken, and those pom poms of hers never did make it out on that gym floor. Reason number three: My daughter's teacher asked Libby to read aloud to her for months before she finally agreed to do it, and when she did agree, she chose a book with four words in it.

Sure, my little girl can talk a big game. She's always been very good at making plans. What she's not always so good at, is following through with her plans, especially if they involve getting up in front of an audience. So when Libby told me she wanted to accept an invitation to read to the students now inhabiting her former preschool classroom, forgive me if I was skeptical. VERY skeptical.

I stalled on getting the visit scheduled. I told her we should wait until after Thanksgiving. Then I told her we should wait until after Christmas. Then, low and behold, there was an email in my inbox in early January from Libby’s former teachers. They wanted to set a date and I was out of reasons to stall.

My daughter was thrilled when I told her the plans were made and she was going to read in her old classroom on a Friday morning near the end of the month. She knew exactly what book she would take: "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby." Never mind that the humor would likely be over the heads of the audience. Never mind that the book was part of a collection and therefore quite heavy. Never mind that the illustrations were much too small to see from a distance. Never mind that the story was a lengthy one. My daughter loved "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby" and she knew she could read it well. And she did read it well. Very well, in fact.

Right up to the point where she got stuck.

It was the longest word in the story. It was a word rarely spoken and a word I've never seen in another book. It was a word I likely “edited” when I read this particular book to Libby in the past, as it wasn’t a word I cared to hear my child repeat. It was the word ‘tarnation.’ Seriously, who says that word? You drop a jar on your foot and you yell ‘TARNATION!’ Yea, I didn’t think so. Maybe your great grandmother used that word down in south Georgia a century ago, but today, it's not a common expletive, at least not in these parts.

Yet . . . Amelia Bedelia uses the word ‘tarnation.’ And now, my daughter was sitting in front of eighteen people, trying desperately to determine what to do because she had come to a word in the book she was reading aloud that she didn’t know or wasn’t sure she should say.

As mothers, we’ve all had those moments. You know, the ones where you feel as if someone is actually reaching into your chest, grabbing hold of your heart, and twisting it as tightly as they possibly can. Well, this was one of those moments. I was twenty feet away from my daughter as I watched her face contort in confusion. I saw the look of panic in her eyes and the quiver of her lip as helplessness began to consume her. The alarm sounded inside my head and I felt hot beads of sweat begin to form as every ounce of blood in my body rushed to the surface of my skin. I could see flashing red lights around me, all of them screaming the same dire message.

RESCUE! RESCUE! RESCUE your daughter!

I opened my mouth but no words came.

What should I do? What can I say? How do I help her?

I'm sure no more than two or three seconds passed as this event played out that Friday morning in Libby’s old preschool class. My daughter stumbled, just for a moment, and struggled to get back on her feet, something she does on a daily basis . . . something we all do on a daily basis. And yet, the familiar rush of emotions that overtook my being as I witnessed it was torturous. It was physically painful to watch my child sitting on the brink of failure with a crowd observing.

I didn’t rescue Libby. The teacher, who was sitting just a few feet away, jumped to action and helped my daughter with the word she didn’t know how to say. I was already a big fan of that teacher. Now, she’s one of my heroes.

The rest of the read aloud went perfectly. Libby recovered quickly and went on to finish the book as if she’d been reading to a classroom full of students for years. She was so proud of herself as she skipped down the hall and back to our car just minutes later, and I felt so grateful to be her mother. Still, I will forever remember that moment when my heart twisted inside my chest while watching my daughter flounder to get out of a situation she didn't want to be in. I’ll never forget the overwhelming intensity of emotions in my soul as I observed my child hanging on for dear life.

Oh, I'm certain I’ll have those feelings again. As the mother of two children, my heart will likely be caught in that vice grip of concern many, many times in the years ahead, and I imagine it will never get any less difficult to witness my children in the throes of their discomfort. In all honesty, as much as it hurts, I want my children to have some challenging experiences in their lives. They need to know what it's like to suffer embarrassment and heartache and helplessness, or else how will they learn to empathize with others? How will they learn to ask for help? How will they learn to trust in the only one who will always be there when they need Him?

I suppose, as a parent, all I can do is hope and pray that there will always be loving and supportive people nearby when my children are in need of being recued - teachers, friends, family members. And one day, when my heart has been thoroughly ripped to shreds after all the worry and hope and pleading with God to protect my children from all that can trip them up in life, I will have to smile, step back, and let my children rescue themselves.