My bruddah

Back when the boys were little, I’d take them to a local McDonald’s that had an indoor playground. For the price of admission (three Happy Meals — the third was mine so that I’d have a backup toy in case one of the boys’ went missing), we could eat, then the boys would play for about an hour while I read a book.

The play area had brightly colored plastic tubes through which the kids would crawl endlessly. At the top was a small room with plastic windows through which a child could peer and wave before disappearing back into the maze. There was a slide and numerous areas where the kids could crawl into and out of the maze. And there was a ball pit.

I was never one of those parents who carried hand sanitizer in a holster, ready to slather the stuff on my little snowflakes. On the other hand, as I watched more than one little snot-nosed child clambering around, I wondered how often the play area was disinfected … or if it ever was. My kids are both disgustingly healthy, and I wonder if it was because they were exposed to enough germs to make an epidemiologist faint. First there was day care, then school, and the necessary trips to a variety of stores, and the McDonald’s playground.

Taking your kid to a playground is an interesting adventure. Next time you’re near a playground, take a moment to observe what’s going on. The kids are happily playing, some with reckless abandon, others with an almost palpable air of caution. Meanwhile, parents, grandparents, and other caretakers ring the playground. Some are relaxed, either sitting on benches or standing talking with other adults. Others, however, are poised to leap into action and keep an eagle eye on their children. These parents remind me of the big cats in the zoo. They pace and pace, keeping their eye on their children, never for an instant letting them out of their sight. Of course, the big cats are trying to figure out how to get out of their enclosures and eat their observers. The parents are just trying to keep track of their own cubs, which are constantly on the move.

Back to the McDonald’s playground. Kids can sometime form alliances in an instant, making a new friend to run around with and challenge to daring imaginary adventures.

My older son had made one of these transitory friends while playing in the ball pit. He was about 5 and so had the requisite skills for climbing and jumping. The two of them were having a great time, while my 2-year-old son kept on the periphery of their play.

I was reading when I heard a howl of pain. All the parents’ heads snapped up and turned toward the playground, mine included. Out of the ball pit came my 5-year-old and his friend, who had a hand clamped to the side of his head. My 2-year-old stayed inside the ball pit, sitting on one of the ledges.

The boy’s mother calmly walked over to him, squatted down, and took a look at the boy’s ear. She talked to him quietly, gave him a kiss, and had him go sit down.

“Skimbleshanks? What happened?” I asked my son.

“Buddhaboy bit that kid. He bit him right on the ear.”

What. The. Hell?!

“Buddhaboy! Come here!” I was utterly nonplussed. True, Buddhaboy was only 2; however, he’d never been a biter, as some kids are. He walked up to me.

“Did you bite that boy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?! Why in the world would you bite someone?”

“He pushed my bruddah.”

I blinked, then turned to Skimbleshanks for his expert interpretation.

“That boy and I were playing, and he pushed me into the ball pit. We were playing. He wasn’t being mean. We were just playing.”

I figured things might go more smoothly if I gave myself a minute or two to calm down. I had the boys sit at the table and eat their food. I walked over to the table where the other mother and her son, whose ear was bright red, were sitting.

“I am so, so sorry,” I began. “My younger son thought he was protecting his brother. Is your son all right?”

“He’s fine. The skin is broken, but he’s fine.”

I felt my stomach drop down and my mouth drop open. Broken skin = blood. Blood = blood tests, shots, the end of the world.

The woman must have known what was racing around in my mind, because she smiled and again told me that the boy was fine and not to worry about it.

“These things sometimes happen,” she said.

“Not to me,” I responded. “I’m so very sorry.”

I went back to the table and began throwing uneaten food into a bag and scooped the trash onto the tray. My motions were jerky and quick. I wanted to get out of that place and away as quickly as I could.

In the car I tried turning the day’s event into a teachable moment.

“Buddhaboy, honey? Do I ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Does Skimbleshanks ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Does daddy ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Do the dogs ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Do you think that it’s OK to bite other people?”

“No … but he pushed my big bruddah.”

“Honey, they were just playing.”

“Yeah, Buddhaboy,” Skimbleshanks chimed in. “He wasn’t being mean. We were playing.”

In the rear-view mirror I looked at Buddhaboy. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth set in a tight line.

“He pushed my bruddah. No one pushes my bruddah.”

I had to give the kid credit. He was looking out for his brother, something we’ve told both of the boys they should do. We’ve also told them that they should look out for others, too. We take care of each other, in other words. However, nothing could shake Buddhaboy’s believe that he was looking out for Skimbleshanks. And, being a 2-year-old and smaller than the older boys, an ear bite was, I suppose, the way he set about protecting Skimbleshanks.

There were no further biting incidents after that one. My little boys are now both taller than I am, both young men. Yet I wonder what might happen if my 14-year-old Buddhaboy observed his 17-year-old brother being picked on. I don’t wonder about it often, though, because I’m pretty sure that he’d step in, even though his older brother is well-muscled and more savvy now than he was then.

“No one pushes my big bruddah” indeed.