Curbside & Nationwide Maternalized
"Alex is hurt!" said Josh, my son's buddy last night outside my front door, sun setting, my heart sinking, as I ran towards the gravel street where my little guy lay in the fetal position, crying.
First thought-start screaming and call 911.
Second thought-his helmet is on (good man), be calm, baby him as much as he'll let me.
Last thought-Badly skinned knee, bloody elbow, bruised oblique, thank God I have the big size band-aids.
I picked up that 70 pound boy (very "I Love You Forever") and carried him into the house. When I recount that part of the story to my husband, he disbelieves me, but it's true. I carried my son all the way into the house and cradled him on the couch as he cried from topical pain, getting the wind knocked out of him, and maybe some embarrassment.
After realizing that he was not seriously injured, getting him settled in his favorite seat, and reassuring Josh, Josh's mom, Josh's little brother and my two daughters that Alex would be just fine, I used this mid-evening/battlescar of boyhood incident to my maternal advantage - but not before I absorbed the maternal lesson.
"Now you know why it's important to wear a helmet?" big brown eyes looking at me in yes, Momma agreement. Surrounding children starting to get their heads around what could have happened after words like "concussion", "head injury" and "emergency room" are mentioned. You can tell by the way they stand frozen, huddled around Alex. This should stay fresh in their minds and get them wearing their helmets until the next time us Mommies have to remind them.
Safety message driven home, I tell the kids it's time to call it a day since it's become night, then the screaming from the bathroom (isopropyl rubbing alcohol application time) ensues. Josh's mom, Kathy, has that look in her eyes again, she's still there in the I saw the worst case scenario moment. "Relax, it's only the sting," I tell her. You just can't stop being a Mom, can you - no matter whose child it is. She tells me "I'm still a little rattled, I guess." I understand. Bad things, mind wandering, I know. "Want a glass of wine?" I ask her. "No, I'm good" she says. Damn, I sure would like some Pinot right now.
"I'm glad you're using alcohol on him. You heard about the Staph?" Kathy asks. Yes, I've heard. My anxiety level has decreased since I stopped watching the local news, the national news, CSI, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, Cold Case, ER, etc, etc, but I catch the headlines when I check my Yahoo inbox. I am aware that a teenager just died from a viral infection and schools have closed in Virginia due to the outbreak. "You can't treat it," she adds. Worst case scenario, worst nightmare, what could have happened, what still can happen, tears and screams - you can wrap your heart around your kids, their vulnerability, then the rest of the world but it doesn't guarantee you anything. Your maternal sacrifice is offered but not necessarily accepted.
Josh's mother and I stand in my living room for a moment and we're quiet, and we just stare ahead. I'm sure I could have said something funny or succinct but before I could, Josh's little brother emerges from Alex's room with a TMNT alarm clock and asks if he can borrow it. Of course, and thank you, kid. I'd love to talk about that clock and how we've been lucky enough to see more seasons in childhood beyond those funky little turtles.
Alex runs from the bathroom away from where his father stands with cotton balls in each hand fat with astringency. "It'll keep it from getting infected!" my husband yells to him. My son so doesn't care about that right now - but what about the staph, the worst case scenario? I look at Josh's mom hoping she'll nudge me until I fear her disapproval, to the point that I force my son to bathe in painful disinfectant. But staph is a virus, not a bacteria...so tonight my son dodges the painful disinfectant bullet. How about a different kind of medicine? I need to decompress at my hearth.
I kneel down to meet my son's eye-level, my hands on my own battle-scared from childhood knees. "Want some chicken soup and hot chocolate, baby?" That baby is eight years old, has bigger feet than me, and stands as high as my collar bone, but I hope he takes the mommy bait nonetheless. Right here is something that I've got, I'm going to play it up, and do it right (read: with food).
Josh's little brother is infatuated with a silly plastic clock. Alex and Josh fortify their boyhood bond and add a notch to their list of curbside injuries. Kathy, Josh's mom, and I say good-night, yes, it was a good night. Lord knows, it could have been worse. My husband is still wondering what to do with the cotton balls dripping with rubbing alcohol. "Toss 'em, we don't need them," I smile. He smiles back.
At my hearth, in my favorite saucepans, I heat up Lipton chicken noodle soup, add lemon juice from my neighbor's tree, and watch the noodles dance around in golden liquid, getting softer. I pour thick, syrupy heavy cream into another pan, add some Mexican vanilla extract from a bottle brought home from one of Mom's travels, spoon in some Hershey's powdered cocoa that seems to have no expiration date, and pour in the homemade vanilla sugar liberally. This heats over medium-high, a little bit of whisking, and the tears have dried, many needs have been met.
"I didn't want chicken soup, I said I just wanted chicken, Mom." Well, my son is back to normal.
First thought-tell him he's lucky he can choose what he wants to eat, some kids don't have anything to eat at all, let alone a choice about it.
Second thought-that's a little harsh, right now.
Last thought-Remind him to say thank you, and ask him for a kiss, always (read: every chance I get), playing it up.
Maternally.
First thought-start screaming and call 911.
Second thought-his helmet is on (good man), be calm, baby him as much as he'll let me.
Last thought-Badly skinned knee, bloody elbow, bruised oblique, thank God I have the big size band-aids.
I picked up that 70 pound boy (very "I Love You Forever") and carried him into the house. When I recount that part of the story to my husband, he disbelieves me, but it's true. I carried my son all the way into the house and cradled him on the couch as he cried from topical pain, getting the wind knocked out of him, and maybe some embarrassment.
After realizing that he was not seriously injured, getting him settled in his favorite seat, and reassuring Josh, Josh's mom, Josh's little brother and my two daughters that Alex would be just fine, I used this mid-evening/battlescar of boyhood incident to my maternal advantage - but not before I absorbed the maternal lesson.
"Now you know why it's important to wear a helmet?" big brown eyes looking at me in yes, Momma agreement. Surrounding children starting to get their heads around what could have happened after words like "concussion", "head injury" and "emergency room" are mentioned. You can tell by the way they stand frozen, huddled around Alex. This should stay fresh in their minds and get them wearing their helmets until the next time us Mommies have to remind them.
Safety message driven home, I tell the kids it's time to call it a day since it's become night, then the screaming from the bathroom (isopropyl rubbing alcohol application time) ensues. Josh's mom, Kathy, has that look in her eyes again, she's still there in the I saw the worst case scenario moment. "Relax, it's only the sting," I tell her. You just can't stop being a Mom, can you - no matter whose child it is. She tells me "I'm still a little rattled, I guess." I understand. Bad things, mind wandering, I know. "Want a glass of wine?" I ask her. "No, I'm good" she says. Damn, I sure would like some Pinot right now.
"I'm glad you're using alcohol on him. You heard about the Staph?" Kathy asks. Yes, I've heard. My anxiety level has decreased since I stopped watching the local news, the national news, CSI, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, Cold Case, ER, etc, etc, but I catch the headlines when I check my Yahoo inbox. I am aware that a teenager just died from a viral infection and schools have closed in Virginia due to the outbreak. "You can't treat it," she adds. Worst case scenario, worst nightmare, what could have happened, what still can happen, tears and screams - you can wrap your heart around your kids, their vulnerability, then the rest of the world but it doesn't guarantee you anything. Your maternal sacrifice is offered but not necessarily accepted.
Josh's mother and I stand in my living room for a moment and we're quiet, and we just stare ahead. I'm sure I could have said something funny or succinct but before I could, Josh's little brother emerges from Alex's room with a TMNT alarm clock and asks if he can borrow it. Of course, and thank you, kid. I'd love to talk about that clock and how we've been lucky enough to see more seasons in childhood beyond those funky little turtles.
Alex runs from the bathroom away from where his father stands with cotton balls in each hand fat with astringency. "It'll keep it from getting infected!" my husband yells to him. My son so doesn't care about that right now - but what about the staph, the worst case scenario? I look at Josh's mom hoping she'll nudge me until I fear her disapproval, to the point that I force my son to bathe in painful disinfectant. But staph is a virus, not a bacteria...so tonight my son dodges the painful disinfectant bullet. How about a different kind of medicine? I need to decompress at my hearth.
I kneel down to meet my son's eye-level, my hands on my own battle-scared from childhood knees. "Want some chicken soup and hot chocolate, baby?" That baby is eight years old, has bigger feet than me, and stands as high as my collar bone, but I hope he takes the mommy bait nonetheless. Right here is something that I've got, I'm going to play it up, and do it right (read: with food).
Josh's little brother is infatuated with a silly plastic clock. Alex and Josh fortify their boyhood bond and add a notch to their list of curbside injuries. Kathy, Josh's mom, and I say good-night, yes, it was a good night. Lord knows, it could have been worse. My husband is still wondering what to do with the cotton balls dripping with rubbing alcohol. "Toss 'em, we don't need them," I smile. He smiles back.
At my hearth, in my favorite saucepans, I heat up Lipton chicken noodle soup, add lemon juice from my neighbor's tree, and watch the noodles dance around in golden liquid, getting softer. I pour thick, syrupy heavy cream into another pan, add some Mexican vanilla extract from a bottle brought home from one of Mom's travels, spoon in some Hershey's powdered cocoa that seems to have no expiration date, and pour in the homemade vanilla sugar liberally. This heats over medium-high, a little bit of whisking, and the tears have dried, many needs have been met.
"I didn't want chicken soup, I said I just wanted chicken, Mom." Well, my son is back to normal.
First thought-tell him he's lucky he can choose what he wants to eat, some kids don't have anything to eat at all, let alone a choice about it.
Second thought-that's a little harsh, right now.
Last thought-Remind him to say thank you, and ask him for a kiss, always (read: every chance I get), playing it up.
Maternally.
