So many of my childhood memories were unpleasant ones, so today I want to tell you some of those funnier and scarier memories of raising my own children. I couldn’t do the Community Storyboard prompt this week because I wanted to focus more on the positives than the negatives so, this is my chance to totally embarrass my grown children.
My oldest and I grew up together. I was fifteen when I became pregnant and barely sixteen when he was born. He is now thirty six. We even like the same music. I remember his childhood like it was yesterday. He had a fascination with the orifices of his body, namely his nostrils and ears.
One day, when he was about two years old, he was helping me plant nasturtium seeds. They are rather large seeds, about the size of a pea. Several days later, he was having trouble breathing. Thinking this was asthma, I rushed in to the hospital. A little while later, the doctor emerged with a few plants on a napkin. The seeds had germinated in his head and had actually started to grow tiny leaflets and roots. Some of the roots were quite long. The doctor had removed the plants with a basket extractor. His breathing suddenly improved. My son also stuffed English peas into his ears and had me believing he had some horrible green discharge oozing from infected ears, when in reality, it was only peas.
On another occasion, he came walking out of the bathroom one night. He was so proud that he had reached the age of four and could attend to his nighttime ritual without much in the way of assistance. On this night though, yellow paste dripped from his lips and he was complaining about the new toothpaste. He had brushed his teeth with Preparation H. Poor little thing, with his puckered lips and a horrible taste in his mouth, was quite in shock. It took a few rinses with fresh tasting mouthwash to resolve that problem.
As an older child, it was his job to wash the pots and pans after dinner. Once, while I was away at class, he proceeded to bury the entire lot in the back yard with a shovel to keep from washing them. The trouble he went through to avoid that chore was amazing. It would have been so much easier to just wash them, but not in his eyes.
My daughter and I had a different relationship. She was headstrong and stubborn, even at two years of age. Once she was on the deck and took off running from me. I didn’t want her to topple off the deck and get mortally wounded, so I tried to be patient with her. I could see that she had something black in her mouth and it appeared to have legs. Yes! It was a live cricket, and there was no getting it away from her. She clamped down on it and swallowed it before I could get it out of her mouth, pure protein, I suppose.
As she grew older, her stubborn streak grew with her, but so did her level of activity. We bought a trampoline, hoping the kids would jump out some of their energy, and she loved it. She also had a habit of straining her ankles and wrists. After about four $75.00 trips to the E.R. for x-rays, only to discover these were strains, and sprains, and not breaks, I decided to give it a rest. Then one evening, she came in from the trampoline at about age eight yo. She complained that her wrist and arm were hurt. Determined not to spend another 4-6 hours in the E.R. for a strain, I packed her in ice and put her to bed. The next morning, in pain, she awoke with her arm swollen twice its normal size. I felt like dirt, a nurse, and the worst mother alive. It was indeed broken!
My youngest, another boy, was such a good baby, I thought nothing could go wrong, and I was much older at his birth, twenty-five. The kids had a swing set and he had climbed to its top where the monkey bars were at about the age of three. He fell, right before my eyes, and tore the back of his leg on a protruding screw. With the calm and composure of a CCU Nurse, I wrapped the leg in a pressure dressing and took him 20 miles away to the hospital for stitches. He never cried a tear, not one. They papoosed him in a cocoon to keep him immobilized, but he never even said, “Ouch,” while they stitched him up with 12 sutures.
As I grew older and matured, the antics were farther and fewer between. There were five years between each of my children. I don’t recommend anyone starting as early as I did. There used to be a joke about being barefoot and pregnant in GA, and I did grow up with my kids. On the plus side, I could still demonstrate cartwheels, backbend flips, and hoola-hoops to them. Something I could not have done later. Now they are raising families of their own. Fancy that!
Have you got any funny or frightening stories with your children, or yourself as a child, that you would like to share? Go ahead! Make my day. I need a good laugh!