Mothering Memories

Yesterday we were informed that our three-year-old grandson had received four stitches in his chin. Something to do with rocking a kitchen chair, against which he had been repeatedly warned.

Apparently his mother was in the middle of feeding Baby Logan, so she had to pack up a squalling Logan (normally a very laid back baby, but understandably upset by the interrupted feeding) and a crying, bleeding Gabe to go see a doctor. Then she had to help hold down a shrieking Gabe while he was stitched up.

Definitely brings back memories: the quick dash around the banister, the toy shovel flying from the spinning brother's hand, the dog bite on the nose. And that's just one son! Then there was the daughter who got her finger in the van door--and I was the one who shut the door! It seems as if I had to answer all kinds of questions designed to determine child abuse over that one. Perhaps it just seemed like so many since I was already feeling terrible about it.

Someday Gabe will be shaving his beard and will notice that no hair grows over that little scar on his chin. I wonder if he'll still remember rocking the chair?