When I was in kindergarten my parents had a strict rule against riding bikes in the street. One day, while Mom was shopping and my sisters and I were with a babysitter, I broke the rules and was hit by a car. (I learned my lesson, though.)
Soon after that, I peed on top of a yellow jacket nest, which is not something I recommend. I suffered a few dozen stings in some delicate areas and a trip to a country hospital.
What I remember most about both events is the utter lack of drama that followed. Of course there was some immediate panic regarding my safety, but once my parents confirmed that I’d be fine, it was pretty much over. The night of the yellow jacket assault, in fact, my parents went square dancing. They did at least let me lay in their bed and Dad bought me my favorite candy (Cracker Jacks) and a new album (Uncle Remus).
But by this time, my parents had four girls ages 7 (that was me), 5, 4 and an infant. I guess they needed to get away, even if getting away involved wearing a string tie and a puffy crinoline skirt.
When I think about it, I’m surprised Mom left us with some of these babysitters, particularly the one who let me get hit by a car. And then there was Mrs. Parrera, who made us take baths with our underpants on and wouldn’t let us eat food in the house.
Even when my sister broke her leg, there wasn’t much to it. In fact, my parents didn’t believe it was broken for two days and my dad actually made her walk on it. In all fairness, my parents probably took their cue from the medical community. There’s an oft-told story in our family regarding my little sister eating dog crap, and the pediatrician telling my mother to call him when my sister starting barking.
My point. I need to make it before I start churning up some indignation on behalf of my childhood. My point is this: As your children multiply and begin to take over the house, your panic meter adjusts. You learn to distinguish between life-threatening (viral pneumonia, staph infection, near-drowning) and Another Incident That Will Complicate My Life (ear infections, splinters, febrile seizures). Occasionally the two categories will overlap, such as when the Diva got a splinter in her big toe that turned into a staph infection, but in general, it’s an easy line to draw.
Conflict can ensue, however, because not everyone shares the same standards. For example, at my gym, there’s a rule in the KidZone regarding colorful snot. A child with colorful snot is not allowed to stay in the kids’ room. The snot has to be clear. Now, in my opinion, all snot has some color to it, whether it’s snot from a terrible cold or from a little sniffing pepper incident. (Look, he’s never going to learn if he doesn’t try it.)
I will admit to occasionally giving my child Dimetapp so that the Snot Police in the KidZone don’t ruin my workout. On the flip side, I’ve never brought a child to the KidZone with a fever, at least not knowingly.
It’s also difficult to regulate children with different pain thresholds. The Diva visits the school nurse any time her eye itches. The Tyrant can go uncomplaining for days with an ear infection so severe that gross stuff is leeching out of her ear canal. The Pterodactyl doesn’t care about the pain so much as the injustice that may have inflicted the pain.
So around here we have a saying: If you’re breathing and not bleeding, you’ll be fine. Occasionally, we have to adapt that, as the children occasionally bleed. But SpongeBob Squarepants bandages clot the blood nicely.
Of course, if anything serious ever happens to one of my children, I will spend the trip to the hospital ripping out my hair and flogging myself. But my husband will be there beside me, saying, “You’re breathing and not bleeding. You’ll be fine.”