jaded

Is six and a half months too short a time to become jaded?

When Isaac was only a wee soul, maybe 2 or 3 months old, I reluctantly put him in the car to do a couple errands. We’d be gone only a short time, the drive would only be about 10 minutes each way. At the end of our errand running, I carefully opened the car door so as not to bump his head, then, after successfully placing my bag on the seat, promptly backed up and banged his head on the open door.

We both heard the thud. We both looked up stunned. We both began to cry.

We sat in the front passenger seat rocking and crying for a good while. Then Isaac found his comfort boob and slowed down the hysteria to an occasional heaving sob that maintained the dramatic effect. Eventually, I was forced to face the transfer to the carseat, which of course saw the dawning of a new, revitalized version of the outpouring. Half-way home, when he suddenly stopped crying and fell asleep, I was positive I had given him a concussion. I called Mike from the car to make my tearful confession.

"I’m sure he’s fine," he told me. "But how do YOU know?" I blubbered, mad at him for being at work and mad at me for being such a negligent parent.

"Is there a bump?" he asked.
"I can’t tell."
"Then he’s probably fine."
"Should we call the doctor?"
"I don’t know," Mike sighed at me.
"I hate this."
"I know."
"Should we call the doctor?"
"I think he’s fine."

This went on for some time.

Fast forward to today when I was kneeling down in front of Izzy’s bouncy seat to plunk him in it, which I did and before I could strap him in, when I was still reaching to hand him his toy, he somehow ended up on the floor face down beside me. Now, he didn’t fall far and there was no thud at all. Just all of a sudden, there he was, laid out on the rug—the cheap, ugly rug my landlord hasn’t replaced that the cats so like to scratch despite the fact that I continually tell them we rent. "Isaac!" I said in surprise. He started to cry. And I…well… I … started to laugh. My son did not see the humor in the situation and made his very best boo-boo face at me. I picked him up and continued to giggle. "What happened?" Mike wanted to know. "He fell on the floor," I said, still amused, and that was all.

Perhaps it was that nervous laugh people like to talk about. Or maybe I’m just mean. It’s hard to say. But I think it’s interesting that as my baby’s cognitive development progresses, so my hyper-concern subsides. In other words, when you are the most zealous in your worry over their well-being, these kids don’t know a damn thing about it. By the time they know enough to know, they see you in your modified mom state – hardened by who knows how many more bumped heads and face plants, by just a few too many sleepless 4:00 ams.

I can’t say I don’t still freak out several times a week about how I or Mike or the world at large are slicing into the innocence of this child and even, possibly, putting him in harm’s way, but some of the roaring-momma-bear hormones have been replaced with the eh-he’ll-live hormones. Consequently, I might even have a chance of making it through alive too.