First Of Many

It was one of those parenting firsts. And, honestly, I’m surprised it took this long to happen. But this first is one I expect will happen again and again. And I should prepare myself.

It was not, however, the first time my seven year old wouldn’t listen. And it was not the first time he had ever walked along the edge of the tub using it like a balance beam. But this time he slipped. And this time I couldn’t grab and catch him and tell him “See what happens when you don’t listen?” This time that slow motion thing happened. And in a blur of falling shower curtain and metal rod and crashing bath toys, he hit his head on the tub in that way a parent imagines every time he balanced on its edge in the first place.

And then he screamed. And unlike the rest of the times when I angrily shush him and calm him down and tell him he was lucky, he could have hurt himself – I realized he had actually hurt himself. He stood there in front of me, panicked, screaming and very suddenly gushing blood from under one eye.

I don’t know who the woman inside me that took over was but she got all weirdly calm and relaxed. Where did those hushed words and comforting movements come from? How did I get all zen like that? Was I in denial? Maybe acting like it wasn’t so bad somehow made it not so bad?

So much blood, bright and dripping. And more screaming. And a little brother’s nervous, jumping, yelling confusion through it all.

I grabbed a towel. It’s OK. Its just a cut. You’re fine. He laid there on the floor, reaching for me. Pressure, lots of pressure, just like I was supposed to do.

And just like any mother would do, I scanned his body for more cuts or chipped teeth or signs of a concussion.

Nothing. Just blood.

He was sweating and scared and asking me if it was bad. And then asking me if he could still stay up late because it was a Friday. And was he getting a Time Out for this? And could he go to baseball tomorrow? And could I stop pushing so hard it hurt and he didn’t want to get in trouble. And he broke the bathtub.

Quiet, pressure, thinking. He needed to see a doctor.

At the After Hours Clinic, still sucking on a freeze pop with dried blood on his hands and a partially unstuck bandaged cheek fashioned by yours truly, he pressed into my side. He was afraid. It took me seven years to arrive here at night with a bloody child. Not so bad, I thought, while I filled out paperwork.

He lay on the enormous examining table, white and crinkly, lights beaming down, a doctor and nurse and someone else. They oohed and ahhed and told him he was being a terrific kid. He ignored them and watched Monsters Inc. on the monitor hanging above.

They pried it open. I stared down at his dirty, blood stained fingers laced in mine. He couldn’t see what I was seeing and that was good. He grinned up at Sully and I tried to breathe and find that weird calm woman living inside me again. I wasn’t sure where she went. I wasn’t sure I was being calm enough now. I wasn’t sure if he knew I was scared. This was my first time, after all.

They glued his cheek back together. No, not stitches but glue. Their biggest concern was catching his long lashes in it. The nurse refused to cut them. The doctor said he would be fine but no swimming or physical activity for 5 days. He giggled up at Boo while the glue dried. I sat back in a chair and called home.

I wonder how much worse it will get. Will there be more blood someday? Will a bone protrude? Or will he lose consciousness? Will there ever be an ambulance? Will I get to him in time?

Maybe.

This was my first time, but not my last. And there is absolutely nothing I can do to change that fact. Because, so often, parenting is boiled down to this.

When is the next time?

And so I settle back but remain on guard as every mama bear does. And I’ll maintain a fantastic “sense of humor” about my boy “just being a boy” of course. And I’ll still holler at him for jumping off the coffee table repeatedly (even though he just cracked his cheek the day BEFORE). And I’ll compare war stories with other mothers. And breathe. And willfully channel my inner zen woman.

And wait.