Beating up Baby

Yesterday began innocently enough. The kids, having just finished breakfast, were playing innocently in the living room. I was seated in the kitchen enjoying my breakfast and not enjoying the basketball game recap in the newspaper about My Team’s butts being handed to them in last night’s game.

Ian screamed. I used to be able to audibly diagnose the severity of the boys’ injuries through their screams. A low simmering scream meant he’s generally unhappy, probably bored, and I could take a few more bites of cereal and look for a good stopping point in the newspaper before moseying into the living room to investigate. An intense scream meant he’s in pain, probably because of something Abbie did, and I should stop reading Dilbert in mid-panel to check on him, lifting Abbie off his legs if necessary.

Unfortunately, they’ve both discovered that going straight for the intense, full-bore, breath-holding scream is the most effective way to get my attention. Whether Abbie is using his back as a trampoline, or he’s frustrated that his sippy cup is empty, they go all out from the start. I’ve learned to compensate by finishing my bite of cereal while listening to the follow-up scream. If the intensity comes down a notch, he’s just unhappy, and I can continue reading Garfield while monitoring the situation to see if he comes down. If the intensity remains steady, or heaven forbid increases, I need to check for blood.

Ian’s follow-up scream held its intensity. That meant he was hurt, probably not badly, but someone should console him. I went to check on him, and found Ellie already checking on him before she rushed to work. Apparently, Ian had fallen while navigating the toy minefield set on our living room floor, and scraped his chin on the entertainment center on his way down. He was okay, but had about an inch square patch on his chin rubbed raw and bleeding slightly.

Ellie tended to him and calmed him down while I finished eating. Yesterday was library day, and I needed to keep moving to get out the door on time if I was to change diapers, clean the kitchen, and check the Internet first.

I kept moving, and we made it to the library as toddler time began. Toddler time for most parents involves sitting on the sideline and watching their toddler sit attentively in the circle around the group leader. For me, it involves sitting a few feet behind the toddler circle, using my two hands to keep three squirming children in check. Usually that means I hold a boy in each hand while hoping Abbie running circles around the room doesn’t disturb the well-behaved children sitting attentively.

Yesterday, Abbie drifted up to the toddler circle while I held onto the boys. I was proud of Abbie, and hoped for a second that the other parents might mistake me for a Responsible Parent who raised his daughter properly. Then I remembered that the large gash on Ian’s chin exempted me from any Responsible Parent titles. At least his wound distracted the other parents from noticing that, in our haste to run out the door, each boy was wearing two different colored socks.*

Abbie was moving through the toddler circle, and eventually drifted up to the group leader’s flannel board. She wanted to examine the ducks the leader had meticulously placed as a visual aide to the story, and by “examine,” I mean “throw on the floor.”

I set the boys down, and bounded up to Abbie hoping to retain any semblance of a Responsible Parent. As I leapt forward, my foot recoiled backward, and smacked Ian in the forehead. I continued forward to rescue the flannel ducks from Abbie clutches, but knew I was in trouble when I heard Ian’s all-out scream followed by another, angrier scream.

When I returned seconds later, another parent** had grabbed the poor little guy and was attempting to comfort him. I took him back, and set about calming him down as effectively as possible while still holding Tory in place. Ian quieted down a minute later, and luckily Abbie decided to hover near me for the next few minutes.

Ian was in good shape except for a little bruise on his forehead and a little more angst to use against me in his teen years. The bruise looked bad, but at least it distracted from the wound on his chin.

* These things happen when I keep two different pairs of socks in two identical pairs of shoes.
** It was the only other dad in the room; I think he had sympathy for his brother in parenting.