Yer mom

This post is all about words that make us cringe. If words like faggot, nigger, and fuck make you clutch your pearls, you’re probably going to want to visit a different site. Thanks for stopping by!

As every parent knows, once you release your kid into the wild (e.g., school, playgroup, etc.), you are no longer in control of what they hear or see.

The horror that was visited on the entire country on September 11, 2001, seared our generation in the way that JFK’s assassination affected my parents’ generation. However, what I remember most about that time is not the death, destruction, and widespread grief. It is that my precious snowflake, Skimbleshanks, asked me if “fuck” was a bad word.

I was in the hall, busy moving furniture when Skimbleshanks stepped inside the screen door to ask his question. This distance gave me the critical time I needed to formulate my answer. I already knew that I would remain calm.

When I was in elementary or middle school, I called my older brother a hemorrhoid … at the dinner table. My father was appalled and began spluttering about what a terrible thing that was to say.

“Do you know what a hemorrhoid is?” he asked, his eyes bulging, his face red with indignation. “I’ll tell you what it is!” he continued without pause.

While my father described a hemorrhoid to me, I tuned out his outrage and clearly remember having this thought: “Man, that must be a great word to use!”

So, back to my 6-year-old. As I walked out to where Skimbleshanks stood, looking at me for verification, I said something along the following lines.

“Yes, honey. The word ‘fuck’ is a very bad word. It’s an ugly word and is usually used by people who don’t have the imagination to come up with a better one.”

I paused to make sure that he’d taken all this in.

“Tell me … where did you hear that word?”

“[Neighbor girl] told me.”

“Really? Well, let’s go talk with her about it.”

I knew that I was sailing into dangerous water by taking this step. Talking to a child who is not your own about things like swearing, stealing, and the like can end … badly.

“Hey, [neighbor girl]. Skimbleshanks just asked me if the word ‘fuck’ is a bad word and said that he’d heard it from you. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, can you tell me where you heard it?”

“I heard it from [another little girl in the neighborhood].”

“OK. You guys can just hang out here for a bit. I’m going next door to talk with [neighbor girl]’s mom.”

So I schlepped next door, wondering how the coming conversation was going to go. Again, these kinds of conversations can wind up blowing up in your face.

I needn’t have worried. I explained to [neighbor lady] about her daughter’s enhanced vocabulary and where the colorful sentence enhancer originated.

“Oh, [other girl] has older brothers, so I’m sure she learned it from them.”

Any of you ever watch “A Christmas Story”? Remember the scene where Ralphie’s mom calls his friend’s mom about a certain word Ralphie had said? She told the woman, then asked, “Where do you think he learned that word.” Based on the woman’s garbled voice coming through the phone and the mother’s startled reaction, you know that the answer was, “your husband.” I wonder if my neighbor was (and is) truly unaware of the spiciness of the language used in her own house … by her and her husband.

Oh, well. I’m not about to judge. What they say in the privacy of their home … at the top of their voices … with nothing but a window screen between my ears and their mouths … well, let’s just move along.

Certain words are inflammatory, period. There was a very brief period when one of our sons would call the other a “faggot.” The time period was very, very brief. I would launch myself at the offending child and deliver this speech every time.

“I do not want to hear that word spoken in my house. It’s an ugly, hurtful word and it makes you ugly when you say it. Is something wrong with being gay? Do you know anyone who is gay? Yes, you do: your uncle. Would you call him a faggot? Would you? How do you think it would make him feel to hear that word come out of your mouth? You will not use that word. Period. Is that clear?”

As far as I’m concerned, nothing in the world is wrong with being gay. There is something seriously wrong with belittling someone and using hurtful words.

No, I’m not a Pollyanna. I know that some words (like hemorrhoid) are used for their shock value. But it’s going to be a cold day in hell before I permit these ugly words to be used in my home. Let’s take a look at three of the worst offenders, shall we?

Faggot.

Nigger.

Retard.

I will not allow these words to be spoken by anyone in my home.

Years ago two our friends were visiting. The woman, referring to the Indian husband of another woman, said that she liked to “call a spade a spade.” And then she smirked.

I confess that I was so shocked that I didn’t say a word; neither did Ed. What I did do was make a mental note to avoid the woman in the future. I don’t have time or room in my life for a racist.

Growing up as I did out in the sticks, next to white-bread suburbia, it was common to hear people refer to blacks as niggers. Not in my house, though. My older brother used the word in my mother’s hearing — once. She immediately rounded on him.

“I don’t want to hear you use that word — ever,” she said. “Would you use that word to describe Mrs. Knott? Well, would you?”

My brother admitted that he wouldn’t, and that was that. Mrs. Knott was an elderly black woman who came and cleaned our house every two weeks once my mother was working full time (this was back in the early 1970s, when virtually no one’s mother worked outside the home). My mother would prepare lunch for Mrs. Knott and have it waiting for her, a sandwich in the fridge and a can of soup, a soup pot, and the can opener on the counter. And after lunch, Mrs. Knott would have a rest on our spare bed. My mother picked up Mrs. Knott or took her home, and sometimes did both. Mrs. Knott was treated like the treasure she was.

Ed has a nephew who is biracial. When the word “nigger” was spoken in our home by one of our sons, I asked him if he would call his cousin that name. My son thought about it and admitted that he wouldn’t. I said that it was an ugly, hurtful word and he was not to use it — ever — to describe someone who was black. If the person was a jerk, use that word; if he or she was an asshole, use that word. Ugly? Yeah, they’re ugly words; however, they aren’t hateful.

When I was growing up, you’d hear the word “retard” (pronounced ree-tard) several times during any given day. It was an accepted word to use to describe someone who was stupid, obtuse, dense, or otherwise not very good at using his or her brain.

Now, I cringe when I hear “ree-tard,” because I know people whose thought processes are damaged or impaired. I worked as a lifeguard one summer, and one of the kids had been in a car accident that had left him with a head-trauma injury. This 18-year-old young man was on the threshold of his life as an independent adult. Instead, he had a limp, a damaged arm, and impaired thinking. It seemed to me that he’d already been through more than enough pain. Only a sadist would add to it by calling him a “ree-tard.”

My father had a stroke a couple of years ago. This is a man who used to keep the financial books for two of his company’s sites. He taught me how to do my taxes. He was always — always — punctual. Now, as a result of the stroke, he is in a constant state of confusion about what day it is, what date it is, and what time it is. Dad tells me that it’s impossible to convey to others what it’s like to have this confusion. The numbers and the words (e.g., 9:00 and nine o’clock) just don’t make any sense to him. So, I suppose to some people my father is now a “ree-tard.” Ouch — even just writing that hurt.

Words can pack a powerful punch.

Now let’s take a look at the flip side. One of my sisters-in-law used to serve with the army reserve back in the day. When someone taunted her son with, “your mom wears army boots,” he didn’t bat an eye. Sure, she wears army boots; they’re part of the uniform.

It used to be that saying anything about anyone’s mom was a sure-fire way to end up in a fight. Don’t you say anything about my mom, kids (and some adults, too) would growl. I suppose some people are still touchy on that subject.

Not me. I will throw out “yer mom!” at my sons just to see them roll their eyes. Yeah, I’m weird. When they try to respond in kind, it’s a wonderful call and response:

“Yer mom!” one will say, trying to fire me up.

“Is awesome!” I’ll fire back, often singing the second word.

Words have power, whether you intend them to or not. If your special snowflake drops the F-bomb, your reaction, more than anything, will determine the course of your child’s verbal future. So explain to her what makes “fuck” a bad word. Ask him how he’d feel if someone called his friend a “nigger.” Explain the ugliness behind “ree-tard.”

Then lay down the law.

My law is: treat others as you’d like to be treated.

What’s your law?

Naked Time

Some kids are clothes horses. Some could not possibly care less what they wear. And then there are those who’d rather not wear a thing.

Skimbleshanks was one of those nature kids who didn’t really see the need for clothing. I’ve never had a problem with a little kid who wanted to just let it all hang out. I figured that, since we were either in our home or in our secluded back yard, the only eyes that might be offended were my own. Besides, who was he hurting?

Early in the spring of 1997 I was stumbling to the car after an appointment whose outcome would answer the question, “Am I pregnant?” with a resounding “Yes!” I was stumbling because I was exhausted and trying to catch my 2-year-old, Skimbleshanks, who was merrily stripping off his clothes in the chilly morning. I was shouting out different bribes, trying to reach an accord with my son that would result in his keeping at least one item of clothes on. I was exhausted, and the cat-and-mousecapades were but a foreshadowing of what my pregnancy would be like while dealing with a feisty 2-year-old.

One warm, sunny morning later that spring, Matthew and I were waiting for my father to come over for a visit. Matthew wanted to run around naked in the yard, and I was fine with the idea. It was while he was naked that one of nature’s angriest insects, the yellow jacket, began buzzing around Matthew. I kept my eye on it and probably shooed it off once or twice. Then, right in front of my eyes, that little bastard landed right on Matthew’s … um … penis, not to put too fine a point on it.

I didn’t blink, and I didn’t hesitate, but time seemed to stand still. God, being stung there would be torture to any male, let alone a little 2-year-old.

As I pulled my hand back for my forward swing to shoo the critter off, it’s butt dipped down, and it struck. Time sped up into hyperdrive. The wasp flew off, and in the second before all hell broke loose, I scooped my kid up and bolted for the house.

He was howling by the time we hit the back door. I flung it open, scrabbled around in the freezer, and put an ice cube on the injured part with one hand while dialing the phone with the other.

“Ed? Matthew was just stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?!”

“Do? I don’t know.”

“What if it swells up and gets infected and falls off?!”

“Um … maybe you should call Jan.”

Jan is one of Ed’s sisters. She’s a postpartum nurse and the mother of three boys. She’s either seen or had to deal with just about every sort of medical emergency under the sun.

“Jan? Thank god you’re home. Matthew’s been stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?”

In her usual calm manner, Jan suggested ice (check)to slow down the progress of the venom through the bloodstream. Then she asked if I had any of the spray they’d given me in the hospital when I’d delivered Matthew.”

“It’s name ends in -caine.”

“Yeah, I still have it.”

“Good. It’s a numbing agent and should help with the pain. Good luck.”

I took another look at Matthew’s poor little penis, and it was a dark, angry red, swollen in a way that me imagining gangrene and all sorts of horrific outcomes. It was not a happy penis.

(Note: This has got to be a record for the use of the word “penis” outside of a medical text. Porn and erotica usually don’t use the medical term … or so I’ve heard.)

I ran to the bathroom and threw things around inside the closet and under the sink until I came up with the right spray can.

Matthew was, as you might imagine, a little leery of my spraying his wounded penis with anything. It took some work, but I managed to convince him that the spray would make the pain go away — and it did.

I wanted nothing more than to just bang my head against a wall. For Pete’s sake, what is wrong in the world when a little boy can’t frolic around in the all-together without a pissed off insect causing him grievous harm?

In due course, my father arrived. Once he got settled, he asked me what was new. I told him about the morning’s event, ending with something to the effect that, frolicking naked is an utterly harmless activity.

“I guess you learned that you were wrong,” he said. I would have felt better if I’d punched him, but he was just being my dad. He’s never one to let a so-called teachable moment pass by. I would refer to it as an adding-insult-to-injury moment, but that’s just me.

When Elliot came along, we had a different problem. Both boys loved stripping and running around. It was harmless, but aggravating. We didn’t want to punish the boys for doing what little kids just love to do, something harmless. What to do?

We owe a debt to Dana Carvey. The comedian, who also has two boys, described what he and his wife did to deal this this exact situation: Naked Time (for the boys, not Dana and his wife).

So that’s what we did, too.

“Boys! It’s now Naked Time. For the next 20 minutes, you can run around naked.”

“Elliot!” Matthew would shout. “Naked Time!” Man, you would have thought that we’d announced that it was Christmas and that a bottomless bowl of candy was being provided for their enjoyment.

Ed and I warned the boys that Naked Time would end if there were any accidents. Now that I think back, I don’t believe there were any.

By that point, Matthew knew how to use the toilet — more importantly, he knew how to hold on until he reached the toilet. Buddhaboy, however, was a different matter. He was just a toddler and had neither the skill nor the inclination to use a toilet. Still, the excitement of Naked Time was enough for him to put his natural functions on hold.

I wonder … maybe if we’d instituted more frequent Naked Times, we might have been able to get Buddhaboy out of diapers w-a-y sooner.

Naked time, of a sort, didn’t end when the boys were toddlers, either.

Ed and I have always been very open with the boys, telling them that they should feel comfortable asking us anything. We want our kids to have correct information and believe that the odds of that are much higher when the information comes from us. Now, when you take that position, that means that you are agreeing to answer any question on any subject, regardless of whether it embarrasses you or not.

I was reading, curled up in my favorite chair, when I heard the following: “Mom? Does this look normal to you?”

Even before I turned my head to look, I pretty much knew what I was going to see. Call it intuition.

A boy (identity concealed to protect the guilty) stood next to me in his all-together, holding his penis out so that I could inspect it. I believe there was a pimple or small discoloration on it. In the calmest voice I could muster, I answered.

“That looks perfectly normal to me, honey. Why don’t you have your father take a look and give you a second opinion?”

Somewhat relieved, the boy left the room. I rolled my eyes and went back to my book.

A short while later, Ed came into the room.

“Why did you send him to me?” he hissed.

“Because I don’t have one of those. You’re the default expect on that particular subject matter.”

It’s true. When you have kids, whether you’re a woman in the throes of labor or a father being presented with a questionable skin condition, your modesty really isn’t the issue at all. What it’s all about is remaining calm and answering those questions as best as you’re able, reassuring your kid that all is well. Save your embarrassment for another time. Believe me, there will be plenty of them as your kids grow up.

O Fortuna ... Oh, Buddhaboy

It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Buddhaboy turned out to be a force to be reckoned with. This was a kid who put me through preterm labor four times, was born on my birthday after only a few hours of labor, and showed up two weeks early but with a full head of hair and a full-term baby’s size. I really can’t say that we weren’t warned.

Buddhaboy was a robust eater. He didn’t go through a newborn’s usual learning-to-nurse phase. He was on the job and ate voraciously. When the time came to wean him (at about 3 years of age — yeah, he was devoted), I learned how to get dressed in the dark, hiding in my closet so that he wouldn’t see any flesh above the waist or a bra. If he did, he’d demand a ‘nack, and be an utter tyrant about it.

When we introduced him to solid food, he was on board with the program. The evening we decided to see if he liked meatballs, Ed was in charge of cutting them into pieces, and I was in charge with the actual feeding.

“Hey! He likes them,” I said, entranced to see my baby eating. Soon the pieces were gone.

“Hurry up, Ed! Cut them faster … faster!” That kid could put away food like no one’s business.

Since Buddhaboy was our second and final child, I was exhausted from the get go. During the pregnancy, many days I’d curl up on the floor of Skimbleshanks’s room to catch 40 winks while he played (i.e., wreaked havoc).

I confess that Buddhaboy slept with Ed and me for much longer than anyone recommends or will admit to. I was just so tired that the idea of getting out of bed in the middle of the night to nurse him was almost literally painful. So he slept with us. Like a cat or a dog does, he took up a disproportionate amount of our king-size bed. I put him in the middle, where his little feet drummed on Ed’s back and the rest of him forced me to sleep clutching onto the edge of the mattress. It wasn’t what I’d describe as a good night’s sleep, but it was sleep.

Once Buddhaboy became mobile, he began to explore in the early mornings. One morning I woke to the strong, distinct odor of peanut butter. When I opened one eye blearily, I could see that Buddhaboy’s face and the front of his pajamas were smeared with peanut butter.

Another morning, Ed and I were awakened by Buddhaboy leaping onto the bed, followed by our three dogs (small, medium, and large). Buddhaboy sat down between Ed’s and my head, and the dogs took up position across the middle of the bed, totally focused on the slice of pizza that our toddler held in each hand.

I believe that it was at about this time that my father-in-law came to our house and installed a hasp-lock on our refrigerator. In case you’re not sure what that is or what was involved, I’ll tell you. My father-in-law took a power drill and drilled holes into our refrigerator door and side. Let me repeat that: He drilled HOLES. Into our REFRIGERATOR. I can’t even describe what it was like watching that. Anyway, once the hasp lock was in place, we used a small combination lock to keep the refrigerator door closed, the way it should be, while we were sleeping.

But to get back to yet another rude awakening, there was the morning when we were peacefully sleeping and were rocketed out of sleep by Buddhaboy’s cry of frustration. He was sitting on the floor on my side of the bed and was covered head to toe with what I later discovered was sugar cookie mix. I guess he decided that his foray for things to eat was a loss and he wanted to be in clean clothes.

And who knew that a toddler could crack a belt? I went from blissfully asleep to awake one morning at the sound of — was that a whip? Gauging the reach of what I saw was a belt, I threw myself over the side of the bed. Buddhaboy laughed with delight. I sat there for a few minutes, waiting for my heart to either burst out of my chest or settle back into normal rhythm.

The last memorable wake-up call with Buddhaboy (memorable just because I must have blocked out any additional ones) started innocently enough. He walked into the room with “that” smile on his face. If you’re a parent, you know the one I mean. It’s the smile that means your kid is up to something.

“Good morning, honey,” I said. He just stood there, grinning at me.

I noticed that one of his hands was behind his back.

“What do you have there? Can I see?” Still grinning, Buddhaboy did the big reveal.

He had an apple, I saw. And the apple was completely impaled by an 8-inch knife. My toddler had an apple … on a knife. He’d gotten himself a healthy snack and skewered it with a knife with enough size and heft to decapitate a zombie.

Keeping as calm as I could, I smiled at Buddhaboy.

“Wow. Look at that. Can I see that for a second, honey?” I slowly reached over Ed’s body. He was awake and as goggle-eyed as I was. Buddhaboy handed over the apple-knife, and Ed and I breathed again.

When Buddhaboy is still a baby, we referred to him as The Bull. The boy was a determined little guy and looked and acted like he could bench press an adult. That’s not to say that we were afraid of him. It is to say, however, that we were a bit frightened of what he might do when he was older. It would have been interesting if I’d sent a note in to his teachers with the warning about not rousing the bull. Fortunately for all concerned, Buddhaboy the Bull seems to have been left behind as he’s matured.

As time went on, Buddhaboy quest for food grew stealthier. He learned how to open a lower cupboard door and use it as a ladder to the countertop. Once there, he was able to reach the upper cupboards, where things like white and brown sugar are kept.

The boy has a sweet tooth, there’s no denying it. He comes by it honestly, too. When my grandmother gave me all her recipe cards, there were maybe three dozen cards devoted to meats, vegetables, and the like. However, there were about a thousand (not an exaggeration) for cookies, cakes, pies, candies, and other sugar-laced confections. I joke that I’m the anti-Atkins, because for me, it’s all carbs all the time. (It’s not nearly as amusing now that I’m older, because that kind of diet catches up with even the skinniest, scrawniest of us, including me.)

It must have been summer, because Buddhaboy was wandering around in just a diaper. He’d been talking with his father when he strolled past me. As he moved, I heard a distinctive crinkle-crinkle-crinkle coming from him.

“Hold it right there, buddy,” I said. Walking over, I took a peek down the front of a hugely bulging diaper. Stashed inside was a full package of root beer barrels, Ed’s favorite.

“Hey, Ed?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you notice anything about Buddhaboy just now?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I just relieved him of a whole bag of root beer barrels.”

[silence]

“Did you hear me? He had a bag of root beer barrels stuffed down the front of his diaper. Didn’t you hear the crinkling when he was walking?”

“Uh … no. I guess I didn’t”

Moms have ESP, I suppose.

Buddhaboy’s adventures in food stashing didn’t end with the root beer barrels, either. He tried hiding M&Ms in the same place, but with disappointing (to him), disgusting (to his parents) results.

Now that he’s 14, Buddhaboy no longer sneaks food. No, he usually just grabs that bag of cereal or crackers and chows down, despite our rule of asking before eating.

He’s fortunate, too, that the volume of food that he consumes is at about normal levels, otherwise he’d be spherical. In fact, sometimes we have to really work to get him to eat. But other times we try to keep our hands away from the table as he eats everything in sight.

And at all times, we marvel at this kid who came early and has kept us on our toes ever since.

A hole in the head

A kid’s head is a remarkable thing. An infant’s head has a covering of soft, warm flesh and hair … or no hair at all. Under that flesh is bone, but bone that hasn’t yet formed into a hard, protective covering for the brain.

Anyone who’s handled an infant either knows or has been warned about the baby’s “soft spot,” specifically an area on the top of the skull where the plates have not yet fused together.

“Watch his fontanel!” a helpful onlooker warns, as if you plan to cradle the infant in one arm while you poke a finger or two through the squishy spot and scramble her little baby brains.

Pediatricians tell new parents that babies are tougher than you might think. They aren’t recommending that you learn to juggle infants, though. What they’re trying to do is give new parents the confidence to handle their babies with confidence. Babies aren’t Ming vases. They are precious, but if you can relax while handling them, you will handle them with sure, steady hands.

Most families have one member about whom the rest joke was dropped on his or her head. Har har. And most families have one or two members who have actually taken a hard whack on the head at one time or another.

In our house, Skimbleshanks is our hard head. When he was only about 1-1/2 years old, Ed and I decided that we wanted to add a dog to our family. After a lot of research, we chose the golden retriever as the most family-friendly dog of the canine world. (Note: Yes, I know that lots of dogs are the best, truly I do.)

After putting out the word that we were looking, we found a litter in a nearby town. After talking with the owner, we decided to take the plunge. Ed, Skimbleshanks, and I drove to Newark to see and hopefully come home with one of the two remaining dogs of the litter: Tucker or Tyrone. Just in case, I’d put an animal carrier in the trunk.

We were greeted and settled onto the breeder’s backyard patio. The mother and father dogs looked at us through a sliding-glass door. Tyrone and Tucker were allowed out and gamboled around us in all their puppy splendor.

I was a bit taken aback, since both of the puppies looked just about big enough for Skimbleshanks to ride with the right saddle and bridle. They were handsome, fluffy puppies, and, being the softy that I am, I immediately fell in love with them. We could tell that they loved children because they greeted Skimbleshanks with playful puppy abandon.

I was talking with the breeder when I heard a “thunk” not unlike a watermelon hitting the ground. After a brief pause, Skimbleshanks, who was laid out flat on the ground, began to wail.

The breeder administered first aid (in this case, a Fig Newton), and all was well. Skimbleshanks was fine, Ed and I were fine, and Tucker came home with us.

The head-thunking via dog happened one more time a few months later. We were playing fetch in the back yard, and Tucker was loving it. One throw, however, went behind Skimbleshanks, and Tucker ran right over him to get to the ball. This time the sound of Skimbleshanks’s head connecting with the driveway sounded like a cantaloupe hitting the grocery floor. Again, Skimbleshanks was fine after some sort of snack was administered. Ed and I watched him carefully for signs of concussion, but he was fine. I’m pretty sure that Ed and I suffered some brain damage after that event, though.

Skimbleshanks’s cranial adventures continued when he started attending an in-home daycare. I was at work when Miss Deb called and calmly told me that Skimbleshanks had fallen and she thought it might be a good idea for me to have him looked at.

When I arrived at Miss Deb’s, she told me that Skimbleshanks had been spinning around, trying to make himself dizzy. It worked, and he fell, whacking his forehead on the edge of the coffee table. She warned me that he may need stitches.

I walked into the living room, where Skimbleshanks was lying on the couch, a tea towel covering a baggie of ice on his forehead. He seemed fine, enjoying the attention.

“Well, I hear you’ve been banging up the furniture, buddy,” I said. “Can I take a peek?” He said I could.

I lifted the towel carefully and looked at the hole in my baby’s forehead. Seriously. The edges of the little wound were curled inward, and I saw something whitish in the middle. Yep. That was my baby’s skull.

“Wow … you did quite a job on yourself,” I said, a fake smile pasted on my face. “I hope Miss Deb’s table is OK.”

We drove to the local children’s hospital, where both of us were questioned separately about how he’d hurt himself.

“He was being an idiot, spinning around to make himself dizzy,” I said. “He fell and whacked his head on the edge of a table.” I noticed the beady-eyed look the doctor was giving me.

“So he was with his daycare provider?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, he was, and I trust her implicitly,” I responded.

Stitches were indicated, the doctor said. Since the edges of the wound curled inward, the skin glue that was sometimes used was not going to do a good job. With stitches, the scar would at least be flat. I could, however, request a consult with a plastic surgeon. I said that stitches would be fine. What man doesn’t have a scar somewhere on his face or head? Skimbleshanks would be fine, I was sure.

Unfortunately, for children Skimbleshanks’s age (3-1/2), giving stitches is tricky enough that SOP calls for the child to be strapped down onto a backboard. I was able to grip Skimbleshanks’s fingers, but that was about all of him I could reach.

Both of us were fine until the doctor began cleaning the wound. He used a syringe to squirt disinfectant into it, and it stung. Skimbleshanks began crying, and I assumed the “everything is fine” demeanor while trying to comfort him as best as I was able.

A half-dozen stitches later, and we were good to go. Skimbleshanks has a scar on his forehead, above his right eyebrow. It looks like the Nike swoosh. If he went into sports, I wonder if he’d be able to convince Nike to sponsor him.

As parental scars are, mine is invisible. It’s there, though. Every time my baby hurts, the scar on my heart gives a twinge.

There was a time when Skimbleshanks’s head was the aggressor, rather than the victim.

As kids do, the boys were roughhousing in their room. And, as my mother told my brother and me when we were kids, “When there’s roughhousing, someone always gets hurt.” First it was all thump-bump-bang, then there was a howl of pain that escalated.

Parents learn pretty quickly what sounds mean. This particular one meant that someone was hurt, that there was blood, and that a freak out was imminent.

While I dealt with Buddhaboy, who had a bloody mouth and one tooth hanging by a thread, Skimbleshanks explained what happened to Ed. Basically, it was horsing around led to Skimbleshanks’s skull bashing into Buddhaboy’s mouth.

The outcome was one tooth knocked out and another loosened. No stitches, but a lot of blood, all of it Buddhaboy’s.

After things had calmed down and I consulted with a family friend who is a dental assistant, we learned that baby teeth are pretty much disposable. We’d have to wait and see if the loosened one would firm up or if it would just come out ahead of schedule.

That experience added a few more gray hairs to the collection I’d started during my first pregnancy. Buddhaboy was more sanguine about it and summed things up nicely.

“My teeth were in there really tight, but Skimbleshanks’s head did the trick.”

Gray hair and wrinkles

No parent wants to misplace her kid while out in public. If you’ve ever been through the experience, you might want to skip right over this. If you’ve never had this experience … you might want to avoid reading this, too.

I was in the market for a new refrigerator so I headed over to the Sears scratch and dent warehouse. This is where, as you might have guessed, all the appliances with cosmetic problems go to be sold. Would I like to have pristine appliances? Sure. However, I am realistic that everything we bring into our house will end up with a ding or a scrape in no time at all. With that in mind, I see no point in spending twice as much for the same washer, dryer, or fridge. The way I look at it, my distress will be greater by a factor of two if I pay full price and end up scratching it the first day it takes up residence here.

So, with both of my boys in tow, I walked into the warehouse. Matthew was about 5, and Elliot was about 2. Elliot had brought a book along, as usual, and Matthew was most likely carrying some sort of plastic creature in his hand or in a pocket.

Appliance shopping is boring in the best of times. With two little ones tagging along, I had to cope with their boredom, too.

Up and down the aisles we went, checking out the fridges. I also checked out the patrons. One guy looked like a biker, with his leathers, facial hair, and tattoos.

After a while, I checked on the boys. Make that “boy,” singular. Matthew was right beside me. Where was Elliot? I called for him. No answer. I walked to the end of the aisle and looked down the previous one and the next one. No Elliot. I called for him again, this time in a louder voice. No answer.

It came to me then where I was: in a warehouse filed with about a hundred refrigerators. I did the math. One 2-year-old plus 100 refrigerators equaled at least 100 places for him to hide … and suffocate.

I ran to the nearest refrigerator and snatched open the door. No Elliot. I slammed the door and ran to the next one. I snapped at Matthew to start doing the same, just as quickly as he could. He stepped up to the job like a trouper.

The whole while I was calling out for Elliot. Open. Slam. “Elliot!” Open. Slam. “Elliot!”

The biker guy glanced over at me and asked if anything was wrong.

“My 2-year-old son is missing. Oh, my god…”

“What’s his name?”

“Elliot. Oh, my god…”

The three of us searched and searched. A salesman came up to the biker and asked what the problem was. Soon the salesman was running around looking.

At this point I had enough adrenaline in my system to rip the doors off the refrigerators. The Hulk had nothing on me, a mom on the hairy edge of panic.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!”

A man’s voice slowly penetrated my pinpoint focus on the rows of refrigerators.

“What?!”

“Is your son’s name Elliot?”

“Yes!”

“Here he is.” The salesman was standing at the end of a row of stoves. They’d arranged them so that they were back to back. There was a gap at the bottom just the right size for a 2-year-old to crawl into. If he had a book with him, it would be the perfect place for him to kick back and read.

I ran over and skidded around the corner. And there he was. Elliot was sitting in between the two stoves at the end of the row, his book open in his lap.

“Honey,” I said in what I hoped was a calm voice. “Can you come out of there, please?”

He closed his book, crawled out, and stood up, looking around at all the grownups looking down at him.

Frankly, I was torn between throttling him and hugging him. I opted for the latter and burst into tears. I wrapped my arms around him and just knelt there on the hard cement floor, shaking from the amount of adrenaline pumping through my body and the sobs that kept escaping.

“Why are you crying, mommy?”

“Oh, honey. I thought you were lost, and it frightened me.” Matthew was standing behind me. “It frightened your brother, too.”

“I was right here, reading.”

“I know that now, honey.” I pulled back and held him by the shoulders. “Look, Elliot. If I call you, you must answer me. You have to. You just have to.”

“I guess I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, I guess you didn’t,” I mopped my face with my sleeve. My hands were shaking so badly I probably would have poked my own eye out if I’d tried using my hands.

I stood up and held Elliot’s hand, looked to make sure that Matthew was with us, and left the warehouse. The boys were fine. I felt physically ill as I walked to the car. I was shaky and soaked with sweat. Once we were in the car, I called Ed to tell him what had happened. While he sympathized to an extent, his reaction was more along the lines of, “the little dickens!” than, “oh, god! Are you all right?!” I suppose that it was a case of “you had to be there.” If he had been, maybe that third set of eyes would have spotted Elliot and prevented the panic … but maybe not.

My mother went through the same, “where’s Elliot?” scenario. She was shopping at Costco, and Elliot was misbehaving. Before she knew what had happened, Elliot had vanished. While she, too, was in a panic, my mother immediately went to the exit and told an employee that her grandchild was missing. Via walkie-talkie, word was passed among the employees, and no one was allowed into or out of Costco while the search was on.

Elliot was found, safe and sound. He’d hidden because he was afraid grandma was going to spank him. All he got was a fierce hug from her and a warning from her never to hide like that again.

When I was a child, it always struck me that grownups looked so tired and wrinkly, and their hair was either gray or was going gray. I just didn’t understand then what it was that made them that way.

Thanks to experiences like misplacing my child in a refrigerator warehouse, I now know exactly why grownups look so haggard.