Running in the dark

Charlie slipped in the shower this morning. The gray marble tiles of the floor were covered with soap suds. He lost his footing. I saw him do it. He was going under the bridge. Literally, he was walking between my legs. It's a game he likes to play in the shower while I lather up. I feel neglectful. He doesn't have any bath toys to play with. I quit giving him baths in exchange for showers with me. Baths were taking too long. Plus kids can drown in water. Water doesn't collect in showers like it does in baths. I have a fear that I won't be able to do CPR properly. Every other day or so I try to replay the CPR steps that I performed on a fake baby in the parenting class at the hospital. It was long ago. Nineteen months have gone by. I get CPR and the Heimlich confused sometimes. I think the Heimlich becomes CPR if you can't get the peanut, hot dog, or grape dislodged. I can't remember how many compressions to breaths to give. Is it two breaths and thirty compressions? The CPR people changed the rules just months before we attended our class. It was all new then. But, the instructor taught us the old procedure too. Rather, she told us about it. It doesn't matter. Either way, she tainted me. I blame her for my feeling of incompetence. The CPR process changes after a certain age too. I don't remember what age that is. What if the CPR people decide to change the rules again?

That's why we take showers. That's why Charlie goes under the bridge. That's why Charlie's only toy is a squeegee which is also used to wipe the glass down. He was just coming out from under the bridge when it happened. I had just kicked the squeegee to the corner, out of his way, seeing it as a tripping hazard. He fell backward and hit his head on the corner of the shower stall base. I picked him up quickly. I held on to him tightly. I was afraid of dropping him. His skin was soapy. I have learned to turn my ear when Charlie screams. The first one is the worst one. I know it's coming. His face becomes red. He scrunches his eyes and widens his mouth. If he weren't about to yell, it would be the perfect posturing to put a good brushing on his molars. He doesn't open wide for his mom when it's time to brush. I don't know how well she can get back there. I don't want him to get cavities. I am cavity prone. The last time I got a filling the dentist jammed the novocaine needle right into a nerve. I had serious thoughts about switching dentists. I don't want Charlie to have to endure that kind of pain. Visits to the pediatrician are nightmares. I can't imagine having to hold Charlie down for a shot in the gum. My childhood dentist was Dr. Hub Hougland. His dental practice had a black chest with brass adornments in the hall that exited back to the waiting room. It was filled with all kinds of crap. I remember getting a pink plastic ring with a spider on it. Charlie's pediatrician has a sticker drawer. I let him get two stickers after his eighteen month visit. I think there is a one sticker policy, but we had to wait for 45 minutes. How do you end up waiting for 45 minutes when you are the first scheduled appointment of the day? I am seriously considering finding a new pediatrician. But that's the catch. The really good doctors are busy. We could probably find a bad one with a smaller patient load and spend less time waiting.

I get afraid when he holds his breath so long. I think he is going to pass out. Right before the ear splitting cry, he fills his lungs with fresh air. That's when I lean back and turn my head. Then he lets it go. It's amazing. It's so shrill and piercing. I turn back to look at him. The subsequent cries are never as bad. He calls out for Mommy. Comforting Charlie is her forte. I recognize it as a weakness. Perhaps it's a gender weakness moreover. I used to wait way too long when he fell before consoling him. I wanted to make him tough. Jill is holding and kissing him right when it happens. I lack her comforting skills. I try to distract him. I stick my tongue out under the spray of the shower head.

"Try thith." I say. It works for a second. His face softens. Then he cries again. I am an imperfect substitute for a mother's love. I check the back of his head for swelling or bleeding. None there. The scary thing is he could have internal hemorrhaging and I wouldn't know it. They say if he acts tired it could be as a result of a concussion. Great, but what if it's his nap time?

I take him out of the shower. The towel I use to dry him smells mildewed. On his changing table, I lather his soft little body with lotion. His enjoys it on his shoulders. He asks for powder. I oblige him. He asks for Desitin. I apply the cream.

I finish dressing him, retrieve silky, warm him a bottle of milk and read The Raven to him on the couch. His eyelids become droopy. His breath becomes deeper. I hope he's okay. He drinks through The Raven and The Bells. It's our old routine. I wonder about telling Jill about his fall. I left him on the porch one day in his stroller. I had to go back inside for something before our run. While I was inside I got to wondering if I had locked the wheels on the stroller. Panic drove me to the front door. Through the screen door I could see the stroller lying sideways in the middle of the yard where it had come to rest after rolling down the front steps and toppling over in the grass. I ran out to the stroller. My heart was in danger of stopping. I was trying to recall CPR. Was it the new rules or the old ones? I turned the stroller upright and peeled back the sun shade. He was still strapped in. He was asleep. Thank God. I didn't tell Jill about it for a few days. I didn't want her to think I was an incapable caretaker. I've decided to tell her. She should know so she can take precautions when she showers with him.

I walk a fine line wanting to ensure his survival but build in him character. I'm also learning that it's okay to pick him up and reassure him. And like yesterday, I'm learning to be faster with my cell phone camera. Charlie had stuck his finger through the straw hole in the lid to a water cup. He held up his chubby hand with his index finger firmly lodged in the hole. "Stuck." He said. As I fumbled for my camera, he started to whimper. People who had been oblivious to us, now were staring at us. His cries became more desperate. Before taking the picture, I shoved the cell phone back in my pocket and began the unimaginably tedious task of prying his finger from the hole. I missed a good picture, but I think I did the right thing by Charlie.