Momnesia

Only Nine Fingers and 10 Toes After I Got Hold of Her

It’s not talked about much in parenting circles. It’s a source of shame. But it’s also an unavoidable fact. At some point in your lives, you will accidentally injure your child.

It’s not enough these days that you feel guilty about the injury. Now you worry about what other people will think — and whether they’ll call DFACS on you. It happened to my parents once, unjustly, and they never again spoke to these particular neighbors… not that many people did anyway. They were kind of horrible.

So this weekend, it was my turn. My husband hates shopping, so I try to take care of it as much as possible. This weekend, I had grocery shopping, home repair shopping, clothing returns, toiletry issues and — hell; I know I forgot to do something… well, whatever. Emmie loves to go to the grocery store with me and help to pick out the food. It’s always the same food, but she gets very excited about putting it in the cart for me.

She was in a playful mood — isn’t she always — and for a while she insisted on holding on to the bottom of the shopping cart while I pulled her along the floor on her stomach. It was early, the store was largely deserted, and it wasn’t hurting anyone. So I did it. She slid along on her tummy, protected by the giant sweater I made her put on before we left the house, and giggled and grinned. Everyone we passed laughed uproariously. One mother said, “God, I remember those days. At that age my children drove me crazy, and I couldn’t wait for them to grow up. Now miss it.”

I’m fully aware that this time of wonder, the toddler years where everything is new and beautiful and magical, will pass too quickly. Soon I’ll be dealing with things like the time my friend’s six-year-old daughter came home from first grade and reported that they boys in her class think she’s “hot.” Makes a mother see the value of a burqua.

But for now, it’s enough to watch her belly-laughing at she gets up from the tiled floor and shouts, “Dat was fun, mama!” And when I shush her for being to loud, and she says, “Don’ say shush to me!” in a perfect imitation of myself. Ah, children: the fun house mirrors of all our faults — and, hopefully, all of our strengths.

She tired of that game more quickly than I’d hoped. I would have been perfectly content to drag her throughout the meat section, the cereal aisle, the dairy department, the deli and finally the checkout aisle.

So she started throwing random things into the cart; things I would never buy, like Pop-Tarts, Dora cereal, iced chocolate chip cookies, Little Debbies, Doritos and frozen waffles. And I patiently took them back out, trying to guide her towards choosing from among acceptable foods, like which whole grain bread to choose, what flavor of rice cake and whether she wanted yellow or orange string cheese.

Then I turned around from the dairy case and saw she was missing. But, her giggling gave her away. She had crawled onto the shelf under the cart and was laying on her tummy, peeking up at me. “Les’ go, mama!” she laughed, putting her hands out in front of her like Superman. “Gooooooooo!”

I laughed. Who hasn’t ridden under the shopping cart from time to time? “Watch your hands and fingers, doodle-bug,” I said, checked to make sure she was on securely, and drove down the aisle with a lot of intentional swerving.

“Do it agin!” she laughed, and I obliged for a while. Just as we were leaving the groceries for the toiletries, the wheel caught on something. It made that “rrrrrOOOUUUUF” sound that happens when you run over one of those little plastic bits that are always lying around in Wal-mart. So I stopped to move whatever it was, and saw it: blood. Despite my many warnings and checks, the wheel had caught her finger. She was staring at her right pointer, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, engaged in that long, silent heave before the screaming begins. I snatched her up and held her tight as it hit her. It was not quiet, and it was not pretty. But we had made it to the shoe section, so I sat down with her on one of those weird stools and held her as she shrieked.

“Oh, honey, mommy is so sorry!” I repeated over and over, rocking her and while blood smeared on my sweater. I didn’t care if it ever came out. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Who lets a three-year-old ride a shopping cart shelf?! I berated myself, ignoring the memories of my own mother doing the same. Of my sister-in-law doing the same with my now-10-year-old nephew. Of mothers across the world who’ll do anything sometimes to keep their children occupied in a public place.

“Let me look at it, sweetheart,” I pleaded, and she yanked her hand away, holding it far out behind her while she cried and shook with pain. God, her little finger is going to fall off, I just know it. After some pleading, and promising not to touch it, she held it a foot away for me to examine. It wasn’t that bad. But I bet it hurt like hell.

“Okay, baby. I think you’re going to be alright,” I cooed softly. Not that it made her feel any better. She cried and cried, looking in horror at her finger. It might be the most painful thing that’s ever happened to her — besides being born to the Worst Mother in the Word — and she reacted accordingly. But, in her defense, she didn’t once ask for a pacifier. I think we’ve broken that habit finally.

“I needa Band-Aid!” she wailed. Finally, something I can DO about the situation! I snuggled her close with one arm and awkwardly pushed the buggy with the other. It took freaking 10 minutes to find the Band-Aids. Why are they so hard to find? I mean, I guess they aren’t big-money items, but there’s no reason to stick them in a file drawer in a closet in the basement with a sign saying “Beware of the Leopard,” you know? She picked out pink Barbie Band-Aids (she thought it was “pwincess” Band-Aids, or I’d never have allowed it), and I carefully wound it around her tiny finger as she sniffled and cried softly. I picked out pain-killing antibacterial ointment and let her pick out a new princess bowl-plate-cup set as a present, and found a blessedly short checkout line.

“I can’t sell you this,” the checkout lady said as I spoke softly to Emmie. What? Did I grab a bottle of cooking wine on Sunday? (Seriously. They won’t sell you cooking wine on Sundays in Georgia. It’s messed up. What if I had a piccatta emergency?!)

She was holding up my daughter’s princess dining set, the thing she hugged to her chest as she cried, the one thing that made her feel even the slightest bit better after her own mother nearly decapitated her wee finger. I’d had to cajole it out of her clutches just to get it on the checkout belt.

“Sorry?” I said, confused.

“I can’t sell this,” she said, cautiously. “It’s not 1:30, yet.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, eyeing her with venom in my heart. Emmie looked at the lady and gasped, “My pwesent!” she said with obvious delight. She held out her hands.

“Blue laws,” the cashier explained. And then I remembered: you can’t buy anything except food and groceries before 1:30 in South Carolina. Apparently, before then, you can only eat and go to church — or, it seems in my case, go to hell.

I was pissed. But there was no use taking it out on this poor woman, who makes shit wages to deal with idiots like me who run over their own child’s finger. And by the way she tensed up when she told me, she has to deal with people like me a lot.

“I understand. Just… uh… slide it under the counter where she can’t see it,” I said and tried to distract Emmie. But while Emmie doesn’t understand the frailties of the human body versus a giant shopping cart laden with 50 pounds of food and beverages, she’s no fool when it comes to her presents.

“Uh!” she squealed as the cashier slipped the set under her counter in the most obvious way possible, thanks so much, lady! Emmie looked at me, pleading, her little brows furrowed and her bloody finger held up for good measure. “Mommy, I nee’ my pwesent back?”

I leaned down. “I’m so sorry, honey, but mommy can’t buy that for you right now. It’s not time for that yet. We’ll come back and get it laters,” I said, praying that she would not freak out. She looked down at her finger, and then up at me, and blessedly, back at the cashier. “Dankoo berry mush,” she said, and waved politely, if unhappily.

The finger is fine, but the nail will probably fall off, eventually. I have been seriously considering turning myself into the police for “child abuse by stupidity.” I feel that bad about it.

Emmie’s recovering, though she had some difficulty sleeping last night, rolling over on her hand or getting it caught underneath her pillow. Since she slept with us last night that meant that we also had some difficulty sleeping. And I’m dog-tired this morning.

But I probably deserve it.