When Buzz shattered the window last Friday, I assumed he kicked through it. He has a bad habit of kicking on the walls. I tell him to stop all the time, clearly without success. My first priority when it occurred was to make sure he wasn’t injured. I looked him over quickly without noticing even the tiniest of scratches, which then gave me the all clear to freak the hell out about the broken pane of glass.
“Oh good, I’m glad you’re OK because you’re going to need to be tip-top to WORK OFF HOW MUCH THAT WINDOW IS GOING TO COST, my GOD, kid.”
It wasn’t until later, when I had ceased hyperventilating, that he came up to me with blood on his finger. A small slice, but in need of attention. I cleaned it up, made sure there was no glass and put on an antibiotic, all the while assuring him that he would be OK. We would be OK. It’s OK. Things break. They get fixed. Breathe, it’s OK. I may have needed to hear it as much as he did.
Next and finally was the fix-all, a band-aid, which is the security blanket for any real or imaginary boo-boo. When my 5 year old Buzz looks to me, his finger securely wrapped, and says gratefully, “Thanks, Mom.”
I sent him on his way before it occurred to me what he had said. Mom? Where did that come from? When did he start calling me Mom?
Noticing my funny look, he repeated, “Thanks, Mom.”.
I exhaled in a small bout of laughter. Maybe I won’t have to sell him on Craigslist after all. This time. “You’re welcome, Buzz”, I said in turn. “But I still prefer Mommy.”