He hit the back of his head against our bedroom window frame under my (supposedly) watchful eye.
I checked him immediately for injuries and found a thin red mark hiding beneath his bushy red curls. The area around it was slightly swollen.
Although the panicked parent inside me wanted to rush him to the emergency room, I tried to assess the situation rationally.
Thankfully, Wyatt was not bleeding. He had not fallen too awfully far or hard, and the edge of the vinyl window was blunt.
He was crying, of course, but it seemed to be as much from fear as pain. He calmed down quickly enough after being showered with motherly love.
Although the swelling concerned me, it appeared to only be around where the skin had been broken. The tiniest bump would have been grounds for baby’s first hospital visit.
I watched him closely for any unusual behavior. Wyatt was crawling around and giggling again within five minutes of the incident.
To be on the safe side, I did what any (supposedly) mature mother would do — I called my mother.
She was scheduled to keep Wyatt that day while I worked. I took him over a little early so she could evaluate his latest boo-boo.
If my mother had thought for a second that her pumpkin had been seriously injured, she would have driven him to the doctor herself and committed quite a few traffic violations along the way.
I joked that she might report me to the Department of Human Resources because I had let it happen in the first place.
As I kissed Wyatt good-bye, I told him only half-jokingly that he had gotten the short end of the stick when parents were being passed out.
Accidents happen despite the best laid plans of mothers and men. Still, I can’t help but feel that I have failed every time that he hurts himself.
A week before Wyatt took his tumble, he had his first runny nose. My heart broke every time that I had to wipe the little trail of snot from his face.
I blamed myself for letting him get sick. He had gone almost a whole year without having a cold, the flu, strep throat or any other type of infection.
I’m saying that record still stands because it turned out to be a minor sinus problem. He was over it in a day or two.
That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t vacuum all of the pollen dust out of the air if I could just so my baby would not be inconvenienced.
Zac and I have done our best to make our home a Wyatt-friendly zone.
First, we discarded our coffee table because it had sharp corners. Then we bought a baby gate, childproof locks for the kitchen cabinets and outlet covers.
We keep Wyatt corralled near us so we will always know what he is playing with, which nine times out of 10 ends up in his mouth.
We have to be especially vigilant because Wyatt is all boy and has the bruises to prove it.
He has taken many a licking and keeps on ticking.
I wish that I could make Wyatt wear a football helmet, dress him in bubble wrap and know that he would be safe for the rest of his life.
However, I know that danger lurks everywhere.
I have written too many stories about children who have died young to believe that my son cannot be taken from me suddenly and without my consent.
I try not to dwell on it, but thoughts like that nag at me often enough that I have needed to figure out how to confront them.
I usually rely on a Bible verse that I hoped would bring comfort to my son one day but that has turned out to be the answer I need too.
I named my son Noah specifically because of Genesis 6:8 — “But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord.”
God’s grace can cover a multitude of sins. It can also take care of all types of sickness and a young mother’s stupidity.