Second Son, now a busy 19 month old, fell over the back of the sofa again today and onto the cold, unforgiving wood floor. I say ‘again’ because he did the same thing two months ago but clearly babies this age have no memory otherwise he wouldn’t have done it again, trust me.
When I saw that he wasn’t able to pick himself up, I did actually have a heart-stopping moment of fright when I thought he might be completely paralysed and totally head-injured.
Now, I’ve done first-aid training. I know what to do when a newly-weaning baby chokes on a chicken leg. I know what to do when your baby stops breathing because Eldest Son squashed his big fat arse over the baby’s face for too long. I know all that. But instead I stood there, my baby pale and motionless with fright, and I JUST STOOD THERE thinking, “Shit, do I pick him up? If I do, will his head-injured head be even more head-injured? Will I break his already-broken spine?”
THIS is why I shouldn’t be allowed to have children. In moments of panic, I am a totally useless bint.
In the end, Second Son got up and ran off without even a backward glance at my now pale and frightened face. And it just reminds me to make the mental note: I am so going to embarrass the hell out of him at his wedding for inflicting moments like this on me. Naughty boy.
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