Ah, the not-quite-coveted "Bad Mother Award". Most of us feel the shameful glory of needing it from time to time. It's part of the learning curve of parenthood, I'm convinced of it. And once in a while, I meet a kindred soul who knows *exactly* what I'm talking about when I have to admit to something like this (taken, in part, from an email I sent recently)...
...at least twice a week at supper, Zorak will look at one of the boys and say, "What happened to you?" And it's not until right. at. that. moment. that we all look at said child and realize he's got some gaping wound, or enormous goose-egg, or some other obvious bodily damage (my favorite was a series of scabs up his arm that looked like something with razored feet scampered up his arm - wth is that???) -- that I *never* noticed at all, all day, not once. Gah. I hate that.
Then Zorak looks at me, and I know his look says, "Wow, weird, huh? What is that?" But, filtered through my writhing guilt, it looks like a look that says, "What kind of mother doesn't notice that?"
Thankfully, I know my translation box is broken, so I'm usually able to refrain from leaping up and shouting, "Well, there are SO MANY of them! And they scatter! And I'm only a MERE MORTAL, Damn You! What do you want from me!"
I think it's good to know your limitations and boundaries...
And to marry a man who remembers what it was like to be a little boy. That is also a significant help. Yep.
Kiss those babies!
~Dy
6 comments:
Hey, man cut yourself some slack, you've been there for all the big ER trips. It's all good. They're boys.This is their bliss. Translation: Off.The.Hook. *big smile*
My husband's mother used to tell me stories of how her four boys were in the ER so often that they could walk their x-rays back by themselves. I knew that I likely wouldn't beat that, and, thankfully, haven't. They ARE boys and thankfully, they are durable.
What impresses me, is the fact that you know your translation box is broken and can restrain yourself. Me, I don't, and it's HIS translation box that's broke.... ;-) I tell him, "If you don't want me thinking that, then you shouldn't have said it that way". :-))
Oh, Dy, I am this same way about noticing things (well, not noticing actually), and then feeling guilty. Right now I am nervously getting ready to call the dentist's office because Anna has a grayish front tooth. It doesn't look like anything that has just come on overnight, so that means it's probably been like that for awhile . . . and I think she got these particular teeth when she was about 8 months old . . . I am dreading them asking me when I noticed something was wrong ("Ummm, about last week" said with weak smile). : )
~~ SQUEAMISH ALERT ~~
In late September, Gonzo (11yo) had a little rash under his lion's mane collar length hair. "I don't know... we'll watch it."
Four days later, while finally taking over the hairbrush to tackle some tangles he is glossing over, I see a little wiggle. No. Can't be. Don't look. Look. Yep. Head lice. They'd been crawling down onto his neck for little nibbles there.
He did take treatment well, I vacuumed and washed and isolated stuff. He cleared up. Two weeks and two days later, on my 41st birthday, right before church, I found the party on *my* head. My beautician met me before church, cut off 9 inches, and everyone loves my new look.
Not one to keep silent, I'm not embarrassed or afraid to remind folk to check the heads of loved one now and then. My biggest gripe was being suspicious of everything in my house as a potential carrier.
Bumps and scrapes will happen. If the bearer of the brunt doesn't speak up, then it's (usually) not a big deal.
In our house, as long as all limbs are attached and not hanging funny we call it a good day! :)
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