Tonight I witnessed something that haunts a mother’s memory – my 19-month old son, pulling a fresh, hot cup of coffee on top of his head, quicker than I was able to do anything about it.
It’s really a miracle something like this hadn’t happened yet, given the family’s proclivity toward hot beverages and my son’s monkey-like nature. In this case it was bizarre because there were fully seven adults in the nearabouts when it happened, yet – it still happened. He reached up to the table and pulled it down, no doubt expecting a much-less-full vessel full of much-more-tepid liquid.
We all saw the ensuing disaster and curiously the whole room sort of fell back in a hush and a beat later his angry scream tore through the house and I rushed over and peeled his hot, wet pajama shirt off him, held him close, and said to my empty-handed but hovering brother, “Get me a washcloth with cold water.” I don’t think I overdid the drama or anything (good for me!). I could already tell he wasn’t scalded but I wanted cool water on hand, and when Billy put the dishtowel in my hand I applied it to his shoulders. He was already much calmer. “Pat him with it, don’t rub it into his skin” I heard my mother advise fretfully. Minutes later he was calm again, if a little cuddly and icky-sweet smelling. Tuff li’l fucker.
And this whole episode was after two glasses of wine with dinner. Quick thinking, Mama. After orchestrating a dinner for nine.
I’m going to sleep well tonight.