It was a warmish winter Wednesday morning. Snowstorm snow from the previous weekend still lined the roads and sidewalks; though it was slowly trickling away in the daytime warmth, the thawed snow froze overnight, creating patches of ice here and there.

Little Boy and I stepped outside at 7:30am. I was inwardly jubilant that we were actually leaving the house early, and not our usual 5-minutes-to-8 rush. That day, I had 5 meetings, 2 weeks worth of work, and a Grad school research paper to tackle. An extra 20 minutes was like a gift.

As I put our bags in the car, Little Boy lingered on the sidewalk. I didn’t really pay him much notice; so long as he wasn’t on the street, I figured he was okay.

And then, the scream.

What a scream. Blood-curdling. It quickly erupted into crying. I rushed around the car to find Little Boy sitting in a pile of snow. Speaking of blood… it was pouring out of his chin. It was all over his jacket. It was dripped in the snow.

It turned out Little Boy found a little patch of ice and decided to put snow on it. “I was playing,” he kept saying later. I’m guessing he was standing on the ice, bent over, and his little legs shot out from behind him and he fell chin-first into the sidewalk. Ouch.

Now, I’m no good around blood. I have a lifelong history of being squeamish and occasionally fainting when confronted with blood-oriented matter. But you would think that my love and concern for my beautiful son would trump my blood-triggered vasovagal syncope and allow me to calmly tend to him as he’s sitting on the sidewalk bleeding profusely from a half-inch gaping gash in his chin.

No. Didn’t remain calm.

I scooped him up in my arms, and ran inside and upstairs. I begged Little Boy to stop crying, but I was really begging him to be okay. I realized I left my phone in the car, so I ran back downstairs to get it. I started crying. I felt faint. I talked to the doctor’s office with my head between my legs.

Long story short: After failing to get Mr. P on his cell phone (he was chugging away on a treadmill), I drove Little Boy to the emergency room at Mount Auburn hospital in Cambridge. It’s the closest ER in proximity — about 4 miles — but I didn’t account for the fact it was rush hour and everyone in the world is trying to drive into Cambridge. We were stuck in gridlock for about 40 minutes. I’d inch the car forward 3 feet, turn around and tend to Little Boy, who was still bleeding a little. I started crying again.

Longer story short: After 3 hours in the ER, Little Boy emerged with 5 stitches, along with me and Mr. P, who had rushed over after he got my 3 frantic voicemails.

The guilt I feel, that this happened on “my watch,” is overwhelming. Logically I know it’s not my fault, it was an accident that could befall any 4 year-old boy. But, still. As I change the band-aid over his stitches, I wince knowing that he could have this scar under his chin for the rest of his life.

I’m sorry, Little Boy. I wish I had noticed you were playing on an ice patch and told you to get off, and you’d get all mad at me but we’d get in the car and drive away. I wish I could hold onto you and keep you safe all the time. But there’s some things not even Mommy can control, and that includes you growing up. At some point, I have to let you go and do dumb things like stand on ice patches and split your chin open. That’s part of growing up, and I accept that bad things may happen. I just hope that, next time, you don’t bleed as much. Especially all over Mommy’s hair. Love you, Little Boy.

Not a happy memory, but a memory all the same

At Little Boy’s preschool, “walking” is out, and “scrambling around animal-like on your hands and feet with your butt in the air” is in. I think Little Boy may have had a hand (and foot, and butt) in creating this trend; I observed at a birthday party last Saturday that no one in his class can do it with quite the skill and speed as he can.

Apparently it’s even cooler to couple the scrambling locomotion with animal noises (horses, lions, and in the video below, wolves.)

I wouldn’t recommend trying the scramble to anyone over 4 foot tall. It’s a little hard on the knees.

Though I worry about banged heads and broken fingers, I tolerate Little Boy doing it in the house. On freezing cold winter days, I even encourage the scramble because it torches a ton of Little Boy energy. Do it again, son. And again. I’ll make another video!

Video

Our first ice skating outing of the winter was a tentative success. Even though Little Boy still cannot stand — let alone move — on his skates unassisted… even though grievous injuries were sustained by both Mr. P (ow, his aching back!) and I (bruised hip when I purposely careened to the hard ice to avoid cutting off my suddenly-prone son’s hand)… even though the urban outdoor skating rink forgot to turn on the music after the second zamboni break, afterwards Little Boy professed to “love” skating.

“I love it, but I want to be able to skate by myself!” he said on the way home.

So do we, Little Boy. So do we.

I spin you round and round and round...

Zamboni Break

Zamboni Break

The flu epidemic has landed in our house. Yes, Little Boy — whose immunity and imperviousness to diseases beyond the sniffles was always a source of pride for me — now has the flu.

Everything was fine…

I left work on Thursday night at 5pm — groggy and disoriented from the Tuesday jetlag that roused me at 2am to answer emails, make to-do lists, and complete mindless work tasks. After my first day back at the office – a day filled with meetings and reminders about how much shit I have to do — I just really, really wanted to go home, have a beer, and foam-roll my legs. With that in mind, I was committed to taking Little Boy to the children’s library before it closed at 6pm, because nothing (except an iPad) keeps him more independently occupied than a fresh pile of library books.

At the daycare, I entered his classroom to find Little Boy extremely occupied playing with one of his besties. He didn’t want to leave. Him and his friend made a raucous game of it, pretending to hide him and saying “Little Boy’s not here!” I had to use my firm voice to convince him to put his jacket on, and he raced through the hallways and to the car, talking excitedly about his day (so-and-so’s daddy picked her up early; he liked his lunch; he went outside one time with his snow boots).

He was filled with spunk and life, and I remember hoping he’d cool down a bit. Be careful what you wish for.

Until…

After stopping at the library and checking out about 20 books, we got in the car. “Mama, I’m cold,” he said. “I want the hot air on!”

“It’s on,” I told him.

“I’m cold!” Then, more alarmingly: “My head hurts!” He repeated these things on the way home. When we got upstairs, he laid down on the living room shag rug and asked me to read books with him. I obliged, reading two books before getting up to tend to other domestic responsibilities. He stayed on the rug, looking fatigued and asking repeatedly for more hot air. Most parents would be clued in by then that something was wrong, but since he was still recovering from jetlag, I figured he was just tired. I’ve never dealt with a sick Little Boy before.

He said repeatedly his head hurt, so I gave him the only medicine he’ll willing take: a chewable baby aspirin.

Then I noticed he was shivering. I felt his forehead and it was hot, so I took his temperature: 102.

And then…

I called the after-hours doctor at his practice and told her about the temperature, the chills, the headache.

I mentioned I gave him a baby aspirin. She reacted as if I told her we went to downtown Providence to party with strippers.

“Never, ever give a child with a fever aspirin!” she said. “Haven’t you ever heard of Reye’s Syndrome?”

I had, in fact. But I had no idea what it was. I was a newbie parent who has never had to deal with a sick kid and probably just gave him a serious disease. I began to panic. “What should I do? Is he going to be okay?”

She backed off on the aspirin, saying side effects were exceedingly rare but still sounding incredulous that I’d do such a thing. She also was amazed that I didn’t have any children’s ibuprofen or Tylenol in the house. After giving me dosing instructions for those, she left me with “If he wakes up tomorrow with a temperature, bring him in. It could be the flu.”

His fever went down after taking the ibuprofen, and he seemed momentarily revived. He wasn’t hungry — very uncharacteristic — so I lured him to the table by heating up our emergency freezer pizza. Both Mr. P and I were doting on him excessively. Although I don’t like to see him sick, there’s something endearing about how weak and reliant he was. Poor Little Boy!

Delirium set in…

The fever was back Friday morning: 102.5. I emailed my boss that I’d be working from home. And in fact, I really did get a lot of work done because he slept most of the morning and I couldn’t really do anything but peck quietly away at my computer. When he roused, I’d beseech him to drink water, which he did. No food, though. The doctor’s appointment was at 2:30. He was so tired I carried him to and from the car. The waiting room was packed. Everyone looked at the beaten child in my arms and covered their mouths. We waited about 45 minutes to actually see the doctor; she quickly diagnosed the flu. “I could give him a swab test, but my recommendations would be the same.“ Tylenol, ibuprofen, and a prescription for Tamiflu.

When I picked up the Tamiflu at CVS, I also splurged on a Transformer toy, figuring I would need incentive to get him to drink liquid medicine. But, it turned out not even a Transformer could lure him to drink the Tamiflu. We tried to lure him with logic, with concern, with firm voices, with bribes, and even by mixing in a healthy (ha) dollop of Nutella. But it still took about 30 minutes before the Tamiflu was in his stomach.

Aside from his medicine, the whole day all he ate was: two bowls of chicken soup, half a banana, two bites of leftover pizza, and two bites of his favorite French cheese.

The medicine helped control his fever, but when he sleeps he sometimes moans deliriously. And each of his moans sounded like: Mommy… mommy, mama… mommy… mama…

Recovery?

Saturday he woke up with a little more life in him. Still no appetite (he merely picked at the blueberry pancakes Mr. P made) but at least he wasn’t sleeping deliriously all day.

Sunday he was even better. He went to Drumlin farm, because I figured some fresh air would be good for him and lessen the chances of spreading his germs. He ate more food and the spark returned to those marvelous eyes.

Today, he is 80% back to normal. If he really did have the flu, then I’m rather bedazzled by the speed of his recovery… and grateful that no flu symptoms have manifested in Mr. P or myself. For now.