Please Don't Let Me Break Him

Okay, so I nearly killed my son this morning.

How close to truth that statement actually comes, given the circumstances, is moot right now. It’s what I’m feeling. And, god, I’m just hoping the feeling dissipates over the course of the day, because I probably won’t be able to function if it doesn’t. In part, I’m writing this now so as not to dwell too heavily all the day long.

Wyatt’s life thus far has been one of firsts (makes sense since he’s starting from the beginning). Wondrous firsts – first smile, first babbling, first giggle. And traumatic firsts – first tick bite, first illness (strange, mucousy, green pools in his diaper). And now, first accident. Actually, I hit his head on a ceiling light fixture once (we have low ceilings)…and once into a door frame. I felt pretty awful about those, too. But at least I was right there with him. Since I caused the accidents, I knew exactly what had transpired. But not today:

Jamie fed him before she left at 8:30 but only a little bit. And he usually gets hungry/sleepy at around 9:00, 9:30. So I had thawed a bottle and was waiting for signs of hunger. Sure enough, he started clucking, smacking his lips, sucking his hands, sucking my shoulder, sucking his way down my shirt (he tends to migrate). So I put the bottle in hot water, and we read some of our story. (The first big book we’re reading together is Tom Robbins’ Villa Incognito. It’s quite good so far and features a talking badger, which seems to suit Wyatt. Never mind that this badger drinks heavily and copulates copiously.)

We’d finished a few chapters, which are the perfect length for his attention span (and mine for that matter), and he was sucking near belly button level on my shirt, so I figured it was about time to eat. There’s a very narrow window between hunger and sleep, and I didn’t want to miss it, since he hasn’t really taken heartily to the bottle.

I laid him in the Boppy, feet toward the back of the couch, head toward the front edge, so he could stare out the window (like he does all the time). He started to cry, as he usually does when his sucking has been interrupted but settled down as soon as his hand found his mouth. And off I went to fetch the bottle. It was a good temperature, at least that’s how it felt on the outside. Then, just as I tipped it onto my wrist, to see how hot it really was, I heard a bang followed by a thud. Not the sound I usually associate with breast milk hitting my arm.

So I looked over at Wyatt, to see what was going on. But he wasn’t in the Boppy. He was lying face down on the floor in front of the couch. (I’m sure exclamation points would be appropriate here, but that wasn’t really what I was feeling initially. It was just disbelief, and barring any specific punctuation which expresses disbelief, I’m sticking with the tried and true normality of the period.)

He was crying, which in retrospect, was a good sign. But running over, looking at him lying there, calling his name, I felt helpless. I felt guilt. I felt physics – trying to work out exactly how he had gone from Point A to Point B. I tried to remain calm and not move him, since I hadn’t seen how he’d fallen or what he’d hit on the coffee table (the bang) on the way down to the floor (the thud). I moved the table out of the way, so I could get to him more easily. And then I threw all emergency scene assessment techniques out the window and gathered my crying son in my arms.

I held him and soothed him and hugged him. We went to the bathroom mirror, so I could get a better look at him, make sure nothing was bleeding (nothing was). And, as soon as he opened his eyes and looked at the father and son who had come to visit us in the mirror, he quieted down. He’s always very courteous with strangers. So that helped. That calmed me down a bit. A bit.

I almost called Jamie but realized she was just starting a meeting. And what was I going to tell her? I was the one who needed comforting, but I was just going to freak her out. Not to mention that she’s been telling me for, oh, his entire life, how he’s going to roll off things. And while I believed her…I didn’t really believe her.

So I proceeded to grab his bottle and sit down for a feeding. Actually, I didn’t know if he would even eat, but it would at least soothe him, and me, to just pick up where we’d left off.

He proceeded to guzzle down three ounces in a matter of minutes. Keep in mind that on some days it’ll take a half hour for him to drink two ounces. And he fell gently to sleep in my arms.

Of course, the whole “don’t let someone with a possible concussion fall asleep” thing popped into my head. But he was ready for a nap anyway. I didn’t want to traumatize him further by not allowing him to sleep. Which is why he’s in his vibrating chair, right behind me, right now, so that I can look back every, oh, twenty seconds or so to see if he’s breathing. He’s actually woken up once, wanting to eat a little more, and then fell asleep again, with a smile. He always knows the right thing to say.

I still don’t understand how it happened, except that it turned out the open end of the Boppy’s horseshoe was turned sideways, when I thought it was at the back of the couch. A blanket was covering the opening. So he wasn’t really sitting in it, more like across it. He must have kicked and rolled off. But I’m still not sure which end of his body fell first and what hit the coffee table. So far, I haven’t found a scratch on him, which I’m thankful for. Then I’d have a constant reminder of my guilt.

Is falling a foot like falling a foot for everyone? Or is it relative to body size? I mean, I know that rolling off the couch wouldn’t be a big deal for me. But is his fall more like the equivalent of my falling five feet? But you drop an ant off a roof and it just runs away. That would be like falling a mile. And if you drop a gerbil about three feet, it’s organs liquefy. Or is that hamsters?

Okay, this isn’t helping. But he’s never getting a hamster.

So I think we’ll do everything on the floor from now on.

I kid. But I know that the hardest thing about fatherhood for me could be that I can’t be there every moment to keep him safe. There are certainly different schools of parenting. There are those who fence their children in, those who raise free-range children, and those who follow around their free-range children. I guess I’m trying to find a balance between the three. I think having “safe zones” is great for being able to take a break as a parent and not worry (much). But that letting kids freely explore the world and develop confidence and independence is necessary as well. Then again, exploring the world with them and letting them know there’s a helping hand nearby is good, too.

That said, I followed my friend Sam around a lot as he grew (he’s three now). And I quickly learned that I could never follow closely enough. Even if I felt like I was right there with him, I was rarely actually able to catch him before he fell. Once he fell in deep water and, even though he was fished right out, I still felt responsible. And even though what happened today was just an accident of circumstance, I blame myself. I want to keep him safe.

Worse still, I know that even with many ounces of prevention, I can’t protect him from everything. If only Jamie hadn’t pooh-poohed my idea of putting him in a protective, gerbil-ball-like bubble.

So, now that I think about it, maybe it’s her fault.

Now I feel better.

Poorly Boy

Much as I’d been dreading it, I still wasn’t fully prepared for how I would feel when my son got sick for the first time. I’m sure there will be worse moments to come, but seeing his poor, red-ringed tush spew forth a spray of brownish green, foul-smelling sludge made me want to strangle the…well, strangle the microbes altering his usually sunshine-yellow latte. It made me physically ill, even after the waft of putridity passed.

(We’re now beginning to wonder if the change in his poop [technical term] is food related and not viral. So I may have to strangle the dairy industry instead. In actuality, if I analyzed every nuance of my own stool as much as I do his, I’d never leave the house. Though it probably wouldn’t be such a bad idea to pay a little more attention to my bowels, beyond, “Ooh, that was a good one.” I suppose it’s the difference between actually being able to communicate and/or deny how I’m feeling, versus his limited vocabulary. Currently, his feces is his voice. Plus, if I learn to read his diapers properly, I might discover a tall, dark stranger in my future.)

Part of my concern is simply that he’s small and helpless. Part of it is vicarious vanity. It’s a stain on his otherwise perfect appearance. No, that’s not actually true. He’s not perfect. Nobody’s perfect. There’s a little dry skin that keeps popping up over his right eye (which I can’t help picking). And a scratch or two on the sides of his nose or under his eyes (damn Edward Scissorhands fingernails need cutting every fifteen minutes). And he’ll periodically have a stuck booger, which mars his gentle, breezy breathing and doesn’t do his button justice. In which case I am forced to twirl a small piece of toilet paper and go fishing, much like chimps forage for termites. If that doesn’t work, there’s the bulb aspirator and/or saline drops. Personally, I like being hands on about it (though my hands are too big to reach inside). If only “got your nose” actually worked, I could clean that sucker out good.

But he’s pretty damn perfect. Most importantly because, despite shitting raw sewage, he’s as smiley and affable as ever. I don’t have the heart to tell him about the wax in his ears or the regenerating lint between his fingers and toes or his slightly misshaped head.

(Damn it, I should never look these things up. Apparently, that can be a problem. Now I have to go in and try to reposition his head while he’s sleeping; otherwise he might have to wear a helmet. Actually, my head’s a little flat in the back. Maybe this explains my poor spatial relations.)

Getting my Goatee

Yesterday, my thirteen-week-old son Wyatt grabbed my beard for the first time. Reason No. 197 why your own child is completely different from someone else’s.

Yes, I’ve held babies before, and they’ve touched my face. Sure, there was a moment of, “Aww, how sweet.” But that’s all. When Wyatt ran his fingers through my beard, it was the culmination of weeks (nay, months) of gross motor skill development. And every time he does it from now on I’ll be reminded of all the steps he took getting to that place – from grabbing my finger at two weeks, to discovering his hands a few weeks ago, to batting at a rattle soon after that, to reaching up and stroking my face.

I don’t want to set the bar too low; I’m sure he’ll continue to impress. But the beard touching will still be momentous for me. It might have been his first “curious to know” moment satisfied -- where he thought, “I wonder what it feels like?” and set out to find the answer. (So what if my beard’s touched his face many times; I didn’t say he was a frickin’ genius.). He thrust his arm forward, managed to land his hand on target, and touched fingers to facial hair, sending a signal back to his brain – “Ah, scraggly.” Actually, probably more like, “Ah, different,” since just about everything he’s ever touched has been soft.

It’s a wide world out there, waiting for discovery.