injured dancer

On our way to dance last night, Kate was running in the parking area.  She was excited to get to dance.  Next thing, she is on the ground crying.  I don't mean drama cry, I mean full-on crying.  It was cold and windy out, so I chose to take her into the studio and assess her knee (and palms).  She continued to cry through the Neosporin-to-Go spray, the don't-touch-it screams, and the don't-look-at-it push-away moments.  Sobs.  Twenty minutes worth.  I didn't know if this was a moment to assert the "You will go to dance" and push her through the door (and feel guilty) or give her what she wanted/needed:  to go home.  I chose the latter, and I feel, in my heart, that I did the right thing.  I do forget that she is three.  I do  forget that she has been a sick little girl and is still on medicine.  I hate myself when I try to make her do what I want, what a big kid would do because she is not a big kid (and I love every moment of this little girl)!  We left.  I put her in her car seat, ripped a whole in the knee of her tights where two smaller holes had been (so the swelling would not be tight), and she sobbed the whole way home.  She was unable to walk (not really) the whole night and had to be carried from couch to potty to bed, but she toughed it out.  She was much better today, but she still could not cover it up, look at it, or talk about it.  Thank goodness it is the weekend.  We all need it.