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.

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.

Choosing insanity

No matter what age your kids are, they're sure to drive you crazy. Newborns cry and exude noxious odors and bodily fluids. Toddlers are like mini-tornadoes. Elementary-age kids are little "why?" machines. Once they reach junior high school and the hormones start kicking in, your little darlings come home with wonderfully enhanced vocabularies and attitudes to match. Teenagers can be terrifying and heartbreaking and rage-inducing all in the space of a few minutes.

Still, being a parent is the most awe-inspiring ride I've ever been on. If a magical being appeared and offered me the chance to not have my kids, to forego the gray hair and wrinkles I've earned, to have all the rest and peacefulness of a life without kids might allow, I'd say no. I mean, I'd fantasize about having my pre-kids figure back and knowing where all my stuff is. I'm human, after all. But I'd still keep my life just as it is ... as chaotic and messy and emotionally draining and rewarding as it is.

Your face is going to freeze that way

Sometimes mom’s warnings had the reverse effect. This is one of them.

When you’re mad, aggravated, frustrated, or otherwise full of attitude, you’re hateful contrary, and you’re going to respond to your mom as if she’d just dared you.

Besides, how cool would it be to have your eyes or your face freeze? Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) tried really hard, naturally, but it didn’t work. Oh, the disappointment!

Let’s face facts: Kids can make whatever faces they want, and they won’t leave even the faintest mark. I used to practice frowning to see how deep I could make the crevices between my eyebrows. To my dismay, the lines disappeared without a trace as soon as I relaxed. How in the world would I be taken seriously if I didn’t have some serious frown lines? My first summer of lifeguard duty took care of the whole baby-smooth skin issue, let me tell you.

But you know what? Mom really was on the up and up on this one. Sooner or later your attitude will show up on your face for the whole world to see. Are you a sourpuss? Well, you'll end up with a sour puss. Are you a Cranky McCrankypants? Then you'll wind up viewing life from behind a cranky, creaky, crinkly face. You don’t need to apply the “loser” symbol to your forehead for the world to know you are one: over time, your face will make it all too clear.

Once upon a time I worked with a woman who had a cynical, know-it-all attitude toward everything and everyone. Her face was deeply grooved from her nose clear down to her chin, showing that she spent far too much time showing her disdain. I also knew another woman who spent most of her life in sunny southern California. Her face was a mass of wrinkles; however, those wrinkles were an exquisite representation of her sunny disposition. Laugh  lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and the creases that bracketed her mouth, echoed by smaller lines over her cheeks, showed just how much time she spent smiling and laughing. Beautiful!

Does this mean if you’re pissed off you should smile or if you’re happy you should keep a poker face? Nope, I don’t think so. The Botox biz is booming precisely because people are afraid of showing what they feel … that they feel. A smooth face is a bland face. Feel what you feel and show what you feel. Just keep in mind that what you feel, your overall demeanor, will sooner or later make itself evident and your face really will "freeze that way."

Doctor mom

I have found that no kisses can ever compare to “mom” kisses,

because mom kisses can heal anything. You can have a hangnail,

a broken heart, or catatonic schizophrenia;

with moms, one kiss and you’re fine.

f Robert G. Lee

F

rom the day your mom brings you home from the hospital, she’s always on alert for hurts, illness, and anything out of the norm when it comes to your health. Especially with her first child, a mother is an acute observer of everything that goes into, comes out of, and comes in contact with her precious little snowflake.

I’m sure I’m not the only mother to have called the pediatrician because the baby’s poop looked funny or didn’t show up as often as expected. I’ve heard constipation defined as “not having bowel movements as your mother thinks you should.” I don’t know who originally said that, but I’m going to have to agree.

One of my favorite rituals was the way my mother checked for fever.

“I don’t feel good, mom.”

“Oh? Come here and let me check and see if you have a fever.”

I’d walk over to her, most likely slumping and trying to look sick and pitiful. Mom would smooth my bangs over to the side and press her cheek to my forehead while gently holding my face between her hands. For that brief moment I knew I had 100% of my mother’s attention and love. I could feel the warmth of her hands and cheek and could smell her scent. That alone was wonderful medicine. And today I administer the same medicine to my children.

I’ve always thought that the best place to be if I was sick would be wherever my mother was. No, I don’t wish I were a child again. I just like the idea of being the center of my mother’s universe. And the funny thing is, I know that if she could be with me whenever I was sick, she would take care of me as only a mom can.

About 10 days before my wedding, a guy rear-ended my car, totaling it and giving me whiplash. When I called my mother the next day and told her about it, she said—and I swear that this is the truth—“Don’t worry. Your mother is on her way.” And she was, too. She’d had her tickets East for a couple of months by that point. Still, it was wonderful to know that mom was on the job.

No one said life is fair

Life can be so unfair. You’re the better student, but someone else is picked as the star pupil. Your older brother or sister is allowed to stay up later than you are. The last of your favorite cereal just vanished.

“It’s not fair!” you whine to mom.

“No one said life is fair, honey,” is her standard response.

Welcome to the world, honey. You can whine and throw a tantrum, but there’s nothing mom can—or will—do to fix things to your liking. That’s not to say, though, that some won’t try, as in these bona fide examples torn from the headlines ...

• Some super-genius banned the game of tag from an elementary school’s playground because being tagged “it” could be damaging to a child’s self-esteem.
•  A school district suggested that purple is a friendlier color than red for marking papers.
•  Another district suggested replacing the term “failure” with “delayed success.”

Oh, please. Life is not fair, and kids--and some adults, too--need to learn this important lesson.

And guess what? Just because you grabbed the short stick this time doesn’t mean that you won’t grab the brass ring next time.

Just begin at the beginning

Dear Mother:

I’m all right.

Stop worrying about me.

f Egyptian letter, 2,000 B.C.

R

ight from the start, I want to go on record as being one of my mother’s biggest fans. How could I not be when she’s the source of most of this book’s material? And, having learned at the feet of a master, I am able to bring all the wisdom, skill, and je ne sais quoi to parenting my own kids.

If you’ve ever been a kid, you lived what I’m talking about.

If you’re a parent or grandparent, you know what I’m talking about.

If you’re a mother, you are what I’m talking about.

The time has come to view mothers for what they really are: living, breathing human beings. Over the last few years there’s been an outpouring of books and articles about the blessedness of mothers. Oh, how wonderful they are in their saintly devotion to their children. These unsung heroes blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda.

Oh, please.

When you’re a mom, you do what you have to. It means staying calm while your precious child pukes all over you. It means arriving at an event where you’re going to present your new baby only to find that sometime during the drive he’s had a blowout – one that coats him from butt to hair. And after cleaning him up as best you can, you discover that the emergency backup outfit in the diaper bag neither matches nor fits. However, you're made of sturdy stuff, so you squeeze your little bundle o’ love into that outfit and carry your progeny into the party anyway.

Being a mother means hearing “I love you” and “I hate you” from the same little person over the course of the same day -- sometimes within the same hour. It means keeping your cool when your child is bleeding, crying, throwing up, and having a red-faced tantrum, sometimes all at the same time. It means being the object of your child’s love for your—and his—lifetime.

f e

I've really enjoyed working on this book ... so much so that I've kept at it off and on for more years than I care to count. I found so many people who had similar experiences with their moms – and as moms themselves – and heard the same timeless expressions. We cracked each other up as we shared our mothers’ wisdom and sometimes even got into can-you-top-this contests for the most sublimely ridiculous experiences with our own mothers.

I hope you enjoy reading this blog as much as I have writing it. I'm hopeful that by blogging this material, rather than keeping it on my hard drive, will keep it fresh (and me productive) in the months to come. "We shall see," as my mom would say. 

If you think I’ve missed a crucial bit of motherly wisdom, please let me know. I imagine there’s enough out there to make this a never-ending project.