Scary Stuff

One day last week I took Riley to the grocery store. I try to avoid ever going with my kids -- even shopping at 9pm is preferably to dealing with candy-aisle double meltdowns. But Miles was at school and we were out of milk and bananas.

Things actually went quite well… until we passed the seafood counter. See, they have a lobster tank. A dozen or more unlucky crustaceans with thick rubber bands around their claws scuttle around until someone decides they’re dinner. Riley has seen the lobsters before. In fact, I thought they might be a fun attraction on the way to the frozen peas.

Wrong. As soon as our cart approached the tank, Riley began to freak out. And by freak out, I mean he reacted like someone having boiling oil poured down their pants. “NOOO!!! NO LOBSTAH, MAMA!!! NOOOOOO!!” he screamed while trying to scramble out of the shopping cart.

Is it wrong that my first reaction was to laugh? I’m sorry, but his response was so out-of-the-blue and over-the-top that it was comical. But I stifled my laughter and attempted to soothe my traumatized toddler. He continued talking about the lobsters for days, adding “no like” and “scawy.” Scary, indeed.

The ironic thing is, this kid has absolutely no fear of things he SHOULD be afraid of. For example: a few days after the lobster incident I took both kids to the gym with me. On the way back to the car, I was carrying Riley in one arm while I held Miles’ hand with the other arm, which also had 2 bags slung over it. I should mention that my arms were already sore from working out and that my toddler weighs approximately as much as a minivan.

I had to put Riley down for a second to open the door for Miles. In that split second, he sprinted away from the car -- into the depths of the parking garage without a single glance at his surroundings. Maybe 2 ½ seconds elapsed before I chased him down and grabbed his collar. And blessedly, no cars were driving past at the time. But the really scary part was that he showed absolutely no fear or remorse. Not at the stricken look on my face, not when I firmly shoved him into his car seat, not when I stuck my finger in his face and shouted, “No! You don’t EVER run away from Mommy!” In fact, he laughed.

For some reason -– perhaps because I was exhausted after 3 days of solo parenting while my husband was away on a business trip -– this episode triggered a mini breakdown. After I put the kids down for their naps/quiet time I started to freak out about what could have happened. What if there was a giant SUV hurtling around the corner, as there often is? What if the driver didn’t see Riley? What if I hadn’t been able to grab him in time?

Scary.

HEAD INJURY O’ THE WEEK DAY: Yesterday Riley got a bad gash on his forehead when a decorative birdfeeder fell on his head. I’m not even kidding. It will be a freaking MIRACLE if we both survive his childhood.

Babies and Beer Bottles Don’t Mix

If you’re squeamish about blood, stop reading now. But if you’re a mom, you’ve probably encountered more blood than Freddy Krueger. And if you haven’t yet, you will.

I hate to break it to you, but kids get hurt. If they’re anything like my boys, they get hurt A LOT.

The other day we were playing in our yard enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Riley, 20 mos., aka “Dr. Destructo,” went up on the porch to grab his toy lawnmower. Only he got distracted – by a broken beer bottle in the recycling bin which he promptly put in his mouth and took a swig from. Blood, hysterics, and panic ensued.

In case you’re thinking, “What kind of a dumb-a** leaves broken bottles around?” let me just say we had recently moved the recycling bin outside thinking it was safer there than in the kitchen. The porch isn’t a place where the boys play. Or so I thought.

And anyway, my sons have injured themselves on steps, doors, bookcases, bathtubs, and plenty of other nonthreatening household objects. So unless I want to outfit them with bubble-wrap coveralls and football helmets for the rest of their childhoods, they’re gonna get hurt.

ALL kids get hurt. It’s a fact of life. You can babyproof your house up to the rafters and your child will probably still manage to injure himself. (Remind me to tell you about the time Miles got his head stuck in a kitchen chair.) You can’t protect kids from every possible danger. (But you should totally try. Maybe if you start early enough, babies get used to wearing helmets and bubble-wrap.)

Believe it or not, I used to be so uncomfortable with blood, needles, and all things ER-related that I would pass out at the mere thought of it. I’m not kidding. I actually wrote an article about my condition, which is called “vasovagal syncope” and is more common than you’d think.

Needless to say, post-kids I’ve gotten used to the sight of blood. When your child’s bleeding from the mouth, you don’t have the luxury of fainting. You spring into action with washcloths, Popsicles, and calls to the pediatrician.

The first time my older son cut himself (on a doorframe), I rushed him to the ER, called my husband to leave work, and endured hours of X-rays and doctors. He was fine. Now that I’m on Kid #2, I’m no longer so quick to panic.

I know now, for example, that mouth injuries often look worse than they are because the blood mixes with saliva. I know that a split lip doesn’t necessarily need stitches unless the cut crosses the lip line or doesn’t stop bleeding after 30 min. I know that you have 5 hours to decide whether to get stitches or not. (After that, it’s too late.) And I know that Popsicles are a godsend for kids who scream at the sight of an icepack. (Although when blood mixes with a green Incredible Hulk Popsicle, it’s not pretty.)

It’s awful, it’s heartbreaking, it’s upsetting when your baby hurts himself. You feel like the worst mother ever. But it’ll be OK. Like they say, kids are resilient. And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And anything else people say in these situations that sounds wise.

All I know is, I should buy stock in Batman band-aids and Flavor-Ice. And at least I don’t have to worry about fainting at the doctor's anymore.

FLICK O' THE WEEK: I finally saw "Babies," the documentary about the first year of life for 4 babies around the world. Adorable and awe-inspiring. And I guess I can't get too worked about a beer bottle if moms in Africa are shaving their infants' heads with giant buck knives.