Thursday, May 15, 2008

• It Happened to Me … Too

  Every so often, I’ll take a quick peek at the Featured Question and Posts on the Xanga homepage. Most of the time the subject is something that will pique interest in the majority of people.  But I’m not most people. I’m only mostly me, most of the time. But occasionally something will resound in the hallowed (really hollowed) halls of my memory.

  My interest was caught when momaroo, related an embarrassing incident with her child. She wrote about how difficult and painful it is for her to see her child in pain. She stated that, “Knowing that my child was in pain because of something I had done was one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.” It reminded me of an incident that happened to me when I, too, was a young mom.

  It was probably early June. I had just brought my youngest home from the hospital only two weeks before. And, I was learning that universal lesson that one, quiet, compliant child does not in of itself guarantee that any subsequent child will possess the same comforting qualities. Thus it was with my children. My angel was followed by the very spawn of hell, or so it seemed. Oh, this one was clever. So quiet, so contented for the first eight days she spent in hospital. (My fault, not hers). I was convinced that I in was in for the easy ride. The moment I crossed the threshold, however, all hell broke loose.

  She began to cry.

  She continued to cry for the next seven months … except when she slept.

  She never slept.

  Anyways, after two weeks of a non-stop crying baby and one week of my MIL’s help (defined: person who holds baby, feeds baby, walks baby and nothing else) I was beyond any description of exhaustion. Then, God, in his great mercy gave my child, and subsequently me, the gift of sleeping late that morning. As a parent, you know late is a relative term. In the cool quiet of that late spring morning, I awoke to the sound of, squeak…..squeak…..pause....squeak…..  Somewhere, deep within the depths of my groggy mind, I thought, “I know that sound”. Squeak…. Squeak... pause, more squeaking. I know that s..; OMG that’s angel child’s tricycle.  In my best Santa imitation I flew to the window, threw open the sash, There in the dew of a fine spring morn…. was my son, on his trike, in the queue to get on the school bus.

  As I hung out that window calling to him, the busybody, across the street let me know in no uncertain terms, that my son had been out there for the last half hour and exactly what kind of mother I was for ‘allowing’ him to be out there all alone. Allowing? Thankfully, the neighbor next door extracted him from the children boarding the bus and brought him back to me. My husband, also sleep deprived, had forgotten to lock the door on his way out to work. And angel, waking up and not getting any response from me, had dressed himself (no doubt there) and had let himself out to play. She laughed as angel dug into his breakfast because, apparently, he had already dug into breakfast with her children that morning.

  Why hadn’t busybody brought my angel boy home? She had known me for years. She chose to berate me and leave my child in possible danger. Why hadn’t neighbor lady brought him home when he turned up on her doorstep? She had fed my child but had sent him back to the wolves. So many whys and no answers given.  Did I mention that he was only three?

  I remember the self recrimination. I remember the horror deep inside when the full realization of ‘what could have been’ came crashing into my mind. I remember installing a brand new dead bolt lock that very same day.

   

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