Replies

I was 8 months pregnant with my first, and driving down a suburban neighborhood street at a low speed. A kid on a bike darted out from a side street, I jammed on the brakes, and he ran into the side of my car.

I didn’t see him hit me, and thought I had run over him (bump in the pavement), I tore out of the car, saw him picking up his bike, laughing, and then I fainted in the street.

His dad came tearing out of the house on that corner, helped me sit up, assured me his kid was fine, that the bike was history for a month, and that the kid was grounded, was worried about the little scratch on the rear door, etc.

I just can’t tell you the feeling I had—when I thought I had hit the child.

On the other hand, the son I was carrying at the time was quite a daredevil. During a routine checkup, the doctor was chatting with him, and asked him if he had any hobbies, or collected anything. “Bumps and bruises” was his answer. Another time, the doctor asked him if he had any concerns, and he said, in a serious voice, “I haven’t slept in days.” The doctor said, “You haven’t? What’s the matter?” My son replied, “I sleep nights,” and laughed himself silly.

We did have to put a lid on his crib, because at age 9 months he climbed out and fell on the floor. I told the doctor, feeling terribly guilty, and the doctor just said, “Well, it’s better than a broken neck.” Our pediatrician had 4 children, and he was just a terrific guy. Normal, you know.

I had the kind of kids that always break a tooth or get a black eye, stitches, or a broken arm right before school picture time. *sigh*