Head wound Harry

It's the late night call all parents dread.

"Don't worry, he's all right. Just a little flesh wound."

My brother was on the other end of the line, his voice careful and calm, telling us that Sport was in the emergency room. He'd tripped over some firewood and fallen onto the flagstone, tearing a gash into his left arm. He was going to need stitches, and the doctor wanted to talk to us.

I passed the phone to SO. I could feel panic setting in and I didn't want to embarrass myself, as I've already got a reputation for being overly emotional. As he relayed our insurance information to the hospital receptionist, I had flashbacks to other incidents. With kids, you're always poised on the edge of disaster, no matter how careful you try to be. Any wisdom you try to pass on is ignored; instructions are forgotten; warnings are dismissed. Kids run pell mell into danger. Nine times out of ten, they're fine. But when danger catches up with them, it breaks your heart.

LegoGuy is 3 years old. He's got his bike helmet on and is slowly riding his tricycle down the driveway. He hits a patch of gravel and flies over the handlebars, knocking a front tooth out on the pavement. Blood is all over his face, lip puffed up like a French pastry.

Now he's a year older and running across a field. He falls hard on a twig and a piece of wood is lodged deep in his leg. It gets infected and has to be removed. The doctor is digging it out, and despite a local to numb the area, LegoGuy is screaming. I have to hold him down as he thrashes, "Mommy, please! I'll be good. Don't let them hurt me! I promise I'll be good!"

Sport is learning to walk. He's on the driveway and falls forward, scraping his nose. Before he lets out a bellow, he turns to find me, and though he can't talk, I can see it in his eyes. Why didn't you catch me? Why did you let me fall?

We're at a friend's house, getting ready to go swimming. She's telling me about an acquaintance who drowned, and I'm suddenly aware that Sport is not beside me. I turn and see him flailing in the pool. Fully clothed, I go in after him. He's trembling, and so am I.

Now he's climbing the back fence. He's just turned 4, and catches his arm on a piece of metal. The puncture wound is deep, and his cries make me cry along with him. We wash the wound out, clean it with peroxide, and put on a butterfly bandage. He falls asleep in my arms, exhausted.

"Don't play on the flagstones," I tell LegoGuy. He is 7 years old, and full of energy. I turn around, then hear the crash. I know what's happened before I turn back to see my child on the ground, the skin on his leg turned to hamburger. I put him in the bathtub and run water over the leg, scrubbing it to remove the gravel and sand. He tries to be brave, but there are tears in his eyes.

This latest incident with Sport is only a link in a chain of many more disasters to come. But each time it happens, there's one thing that SO and I are both thinking that we never voice.

"What would we do without them?"