12-16-01, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb, 1,825 words
Nothing Can Shock Me?
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
I am no
green, fresh-faced, idealistic mother anymore. In fact, I can pretty honestly
say that I am a seasoned, thick-skinned, tough cookie of an old mommy these
days. There are two ways that I can tell that I have transformed from that
dewy-faced "new mom" status into the hardened tough cookie phase of
parenthood. The first is this: Nothing, no really, NOTHING, anyone could tell me
can shock me anymore.
I used to be
alarmed if a friend would tell me that their toddler had hit, bit, or scratched
another child. In fact, I was not only alarmed but also was shocked
and certain that my child would never, no, NEVER do such a thing. Now I
can sit and calmly hear the most frightening story involving such deviant
behavior it could make a normal person's hair curl...... and barely even begin
to sweat. The second way I can tell that I am getting to be a seasoned pro
is- I don't freak in health- related situations anymore.
Before my first child had his first dirty diaper, I was on the phone with the
doctor, wondering what was taking so long. "Mrs. Herb," he encouraged,
"you have only been home with your baby for a few hours....give him a
chance; he'll fill his diaper." The first fever, the first cut, the first
tooth, the first scratch, the first spit-up, the first bruise........ were all
met with my typical new mom aplomb..... aka: total hysteria. It isn't
pretty to admit, but one time when my oldest son was about five, he had a very
bad virus of some type and on the way to the doctor's he fell into a fevered and
exhausted sleep. Though I was driving the car, and yes, though that car
was a manual transmission vehicle; I became so hysterical (I was certain he had
not fallen asleep but rather had lost consciousness due to high fever), that I
opened the windows (it was below freezing outside) and screamed my head off the
entire way to the doctor's office. (He was fine two days later).
When my middle
son fell on his bike and cut his chin open; the world spun and dipped as I tried
really, really hard not to pass out. The rest of the evening was spent allowing
my dad to handle the doctors, nurses, stitches, while I held in the massive
screams which were trapped in my throat.
Flash forward. Last Monday, I was in the kitchen doing the dishes and tidying up
the kitchen following supper when my oldest son sauntered into the kitchen.
"Mom, Dad wants you..... I think Carrick needs a band-aid or
something." I'll admit now that I actually felt a flash of annoyance at
this point- why didn't he come in and get his OWN band-aid; I had just
gobs of dishes to do........ I walked out, and witnessed a scene which formerly
would have had me on the phone calling 911.
My son,
literally soaked in blood from the waist down, was propped on the back of the
car while my husband pressed on the wound. "Come sit with him; we are going
to the hospital- I have to get something to stop this bleeding." My husband
said, running into the house for keys and a towel. I PROMISE
that I did not even scream. Not even a bit, though the blood was EVERYWHERE. I
also did not freak out, not a tiny bit, when we got to the emergency room and
they flipped back that towel to reveal a cut in my son's thigh which was nearly
a foot long and many, many inches deep- his flesh peeled back like a gutted
fish. When the doctor began injecting that deep wound with painkillers, I DID
NOT threaten to lose consciousness.
When my son
explained how a rock had flung him off of his bike and in the process tore a
hole in his leg on the handlebars, I did not gasp, scream, suck my breath in
sharply, or grimace. I just stroked his shoulder and praised him for being such
a brave boy. When the doctor commented that just a fraction of an inch could
have meant the severing of a main artery and a potentially fatal type injury, I
patted my son's back and said, "Good thing THAT didn't happen!"
In short, I was
stoic. In longer terms, I was just a seasoned old mom who had been to the
emergency room before with this very same child, had emerged with that
aforementioned child more or less sewed back into one piece; a mom who knows
that no matter HOW LOUD YOU SCREAM- you cannot protect your children from
getting hurt, from making dumb choices, from experiencing LIFE, no matter how
hard you try. Whew. All you need to survive, when you are such a veteran
of the mommy biz is: a strong prayer life, the ability to smile through
anything, and a bulk
supply of TUMS.
My hubby and I are compatible in a lot of ways. We both like going to movies. We
agree, for the most part, on the fundamentals of raising children. We generally
agree on where the cash flow should go (not a discussion point much as it all
goes to BILLS). We enjoy Cleveland Indians baseball, working within our church,
and vacations with our kids. It's just the GETTING to the vacations that is the
problem. Let me be frank. My husband thinks he is a
better driver than, oh, EVERYONE ON THE ROAD. When he is driving, (which is most
of the time, which I will explain later) he keeps up a running barrage of
complaints against ever car we have the misfortune of encountering.
When a car pulls
out too close in front of him, he has a choice word for him. (Use your
imagination here, because I simply cannot print the word, however, suffice it to
say, it is one I'd rather the kids not repeat.) This particular word, and all of
its variations (he rarely deviates from his old favorite which, to give you a
hint, has to do with a body part you sit upon) are bestowed like pepper at every
car, basically, on the road.
Now, I exaggerate. A BIT. But if you were to ask my kids what their father
calls cars which drive too fast; too slow; too erratically; follow to close;
pull out too close; hog the white line; pass and then get in front of us
and slow down to a crawl; they would definitely know the word. Even my four year
old probably could tell you five or six instances per long trip when his father
saw fit to bestow the word (which he uses as a noun) upon other drivers. And,
you know, to be fair, I have known all along that my husband is a perfectionist
when it comes to the road. When he was somewhere around 17 years old, his father
had him take a defensive drivers course which (according to him) enabled him to
have the almost prophetic powers on the road. (He just KNOWS when a car is going
to cut him off, even before the event happens, which is why he is
"allowed" to call that driver a name before the incident occurs.)
Anyway, all this being said, when we embarked last week on a week long trip to
southern Florida, I was optimistic that this trip would be different. As if he
were my child, I sternly warned my husband that he had best keep his descriptive
nouns inside of his head while we were traveling, and that if he didn't, he was
going to irreparably scar our young children's minds. (Okay. I know this was a
bit harsh as basically your prime time sitcom uses stronger words than his,
however, I still didn't think it was too much to ask.) To my husband's credit,
he did great with the locked lips for a very long time. I would even hazard a
guess that the entire first leg of the journey was curse free. I guess I didn't
give him enough positive reinforcement on his good, clean language, however,
because by the second leg of the journey we were back to old habits.
"You have called at least 10 drivers your favorite choice tidbit." I
warned, as we tooled on down I-75.
"I have?" He asked, seemingly genuinely surprised. "I didn't
realize. But," he couldn't resist adding, "did you see how that guy
followed me RIGHT ON MY BUMPER, and the moment he passed me, he got in front of
me and slowed down to about 40 miles an hour?!" Old habits,
apparently, are hard to break, so finally I asked if perhaps he was tired and
would like me to drive.
Rather
reluctantly, he pulled into a gas station and gave me the wheel. Now it is time
to keep in mind two things: 1. In my more than 20 years of driving I have never
received a ticket nor had an accident, and 2. My husband drives better than
anyone on the road. That most definitely includes me. We were not EVEN clear
from the parking lot before he was critiquing my driving. "You need to pull
out a little smoother." He said, rubbing his neck, "You are going to
give us all whiplash."
We
were not three miles down the road before he reminded me not to hug the right
shoulder too closely, not to surge the gas, not to turn the steering wheel ever
so slightly as I drive, and to put the cruise control on, so that everyone could
avoid getting carsick from my crazing driving. It was at that point that I
issued my ultimatum. "Here's the deal." I said, giving him my steely
eye. "I am driving. WHEN I am driving, you are not allowed to say anything
negative about my driving, UNLESS we are in danger of losing our lives. If you
don't think that you can sit there quietly," I continued, "then you
can drive. Those are your only choices."
"I can't even say when I think you are driving too close to the right side
of the road?" He repeated weakly.
"Not a peep!" I reprimanded.
"Can I tell you if you are making us all sick?" He questioned.
"Not unless you are in danger of dying." I replied.
"Okay." He sulked.
"Okay." I said. I resumed driving.
"The next place you see, pull over." He said, a scant minute later.
As he took his place behind the wheel, he took a deep sigh of relief and said,
"If I can't criticize your driving, I don't want to ride."
I picked up my book to read and rationalized that every
marriage has its quirks. Mine just enables me to read more on long trips under
the smooth hands of my perfectionist driver hubby.