This boy. He runs and jumps and propels himself through doorways at a speed I am still not used to. The girls, as I’ve said before, could not have been more docile unless I’d smoked way more crack. The girls were laid back; you get my point. This boy. He climbs and reaches and pulls and pushes and lunges. He falls a lot. My nerves are shaky. Maybe it’s from the heroin.
My nerves are so bad that he can climb onto a step stool and I am at the ready to catch him if he missteps. In my mind, he will misstep. And what kind of mother am I if I’m in the kitchen sneaking another two or eight cookies that I told him were all gone when he falls? I’ll be the mother you all condemn because he won’t just fall. That one time that I’m not right beside or behind or within two steps’ reach will be the one time he falls, knocks over a chair that catapults him sideways so that he hits his head on the edge of the too-sharp table, and knocks himself out. And you thought I was such a good mother.
I have gotten better, though. He’s three. I let him fall when he defies me and climbs onto the back of the sofa, then flies down, wearing a cape, calling himself IncrediSpiderBatman. He laughs and does it again. I let him fall when he is running so hard, so hard, so fast, so fast and then his shoes are untied, his chasing sister is upon him and down they go. He laughs and says you can’t get me. I let him fall when his Gangnam style goes awry. I even let him fall when he hops between two dining room chairs and the space between them continues to grow. I let him. I sometimes give him Band-Aids for the imaginary knee scrapes.
And yet. There is one area that I am still all coming off the methadone shaky: stairs.
And it gets better. I’m not just scared of his falling down the stairs, but of the girls, my husband, and myself. I am so paranoid about the stairs that I sometimes count them if it’s late and the lights are off, just so that I know when I’m at the bottom. Sometimes, I miscount and all it takes is me to miss that last step and I’MA DIE. The last time this happened, my husband casually looked at me, one eyebrow arched, “You okay?”
“No. I fell and I just barely kept myself from hitting my forehead on the doorknob, giving myself a severe concussion.” He walked away. Look, y’all. I can’t underestimate a potential concussion. If I die and the findings show I could have been saved with immediate medical attention, look at him because he probably thought I was faking lying on the floor outside of the tub.
When I first had him (OK, each of them) I used to have nightmares about falling down the stairs while holding the baby, LANDING ON THE BABY. Way to go, brain.
I try not to do it, but when he’s near the top of the stairs and he’s running, I grab him. Or, more accurately, I reach out to him like I’m going to grab him but I catch myself, not wanting to scare him. He moves more the other direction anyway, to avoid me, and then his foot gets too close to the top stair. AND THEN MY HEART STOPS BECAUSE HEAD FIRST. ON THE HARDWOOD. HEAD OVER FEET OVER HEAD.
I’m going to be the reason he falls head first down the stairs and needs to go to the emergency room on a Friday night. Do you know what the ER looks like on Friday nights? That’s just selfish.
Then again, maybe he’ll be OK. He’s usually in a helmet anyway.
oh my he is just so damn cute!
I mentioned to a friend that i grew up with all sisters and when my sister had the 1st grandchild it too was a girl. Then a boy arrived. We were all in shock. What an extreme difference. My mother thought he may need medication. We all just laughed and said, “no, he’s just a boy and you’ve only had girls” the girls will sit in a corner and play with dolls and color and be quiet. The boy is a whirlwind of activity and always appears on the verge of danger.
I haven’t hit the pipe in YEARS but I worry about all this too. Especially when they were babies. Falling with them, dropping them directly on their heads, faces smashing bedroom corner nightstands. It’s excruciating. But let the record show, in my house it’s the girl child who is crazy and the boy who is chill. It’s just in their DNA, they were born that way.
I cannot stop giggling at this. I routinely say to people, especially people I don’t know well, “back when I used to hit the pipe” BECAUSE IT’S HILARIOUS.
oh yes, I know. I’ve been doing it for years. We have similar (sick?) senses of humor. Yours is just better.
My sister-in-law almost fell down the stairs while holding newborn Miss D. You don’t even wanna know how I reacted.
You’re right; I don’t want to know. I mean, yes, I’VE hit my baby’s head when I didn’t fully clear the door jamb before turning but it’s wholly different when it’s a person other than me.
There is an upside, I realized when my boys were toddlers, to living in an apartment: ONE LEVEL. Flat. Flat, flat, flat, and small enough that I could peek out of the ktichen and survey the entire space to make sure no one had impaled himself. Then boy #2 learned to walk AT NINE MONTHS OLD. Ambulatory, and yet with a brain still the size of a walnut. We were visting my grandmother’s cottage, which had a long flight of slick wooden steps up to the front porch – wiiiiide stairs so no railings within easy reach. I turned away, swear to god 90 seconds, and turned back around, and walnut-brain had wobbled himself to the absolute top of the wooden staircase and was on the edge of the very top step, his pee-laden diaper so heavy that it was pulling him backwards and he would’ve plummted headfirst and backwards down the stairs to the brick patio at the bottom. I have never moved so fast in my life. So keep that damn helmet on that boy until he’s, I don’t know, 25?
All of the what-if, if only scenarios of danger come to mind. Each kid created her own Watch Me Get Too Close to the Stove So Mommy Can Run situation. I too have moved faster than I thought humanly possible (said after a twisted ankle, ripped skirt, and a few bloddy knees.)
Cady fell down the stairs in my mom’s townhouse one day when mom was watching her, standing right next to her on the stairs. Mom moved.
I am cringing for you.
I always saw you on Kimberly’s website (makes mama go somethin …) but I never connected you with the two wildly diverse reads at BlogHer that I loved (VOTY and LTYM). Anyway, hi!
I have this thing about stairs too, because I had pins put in my hip when I was 12 and right out of the hospital, I couldn’t get a handle on my crutches at the top of a long narrow staircase and I went a’tumblin down. Even without that episode, my mind totally goes there!
Hi, Jennie! (I’m on part three of your memoir.)
Um, OK, soooooooooo your story is giving me the underarm sweats. DIDN’T NEED THAT VISUAL! So you were already recovering from one thing and then…(face, meet desk.)
That boy is so cute! You’d better not let him crack his head open. I identify, I must say. My boy’s the same way. Are they all like that? Crazy boys? According to my family lore, my mama actually DID drop me while walking down stairs. We had a big German Shepherd, who rushed past her to greet Daddy at the door, knocking her over. She managed to reach down and grab my little baby head, but my little baby body fell right on the corner of a stair, and broke 2 ribs! I don’t think she ever forgave herself. Okay, I’m realizing this probably didn’t make you feel any better!
*stares blankly at Gretchen*
I am trying my best not to have his head or body come apart. IT IS HARD. He seems determined to break himself (or see Mommy fall in the process of preventing him from breaking himself.)
*goes back to Gretchen’s original baby body with broken ribs comment and stares blankly*