Mama nose best

I must apologize to all you loyal readers out there for my blog absence. I have been going through a semi-existential crisis along the lines of “I bitch therefore, I am.” Then my Dad was here for 1 week . . . insert witty sarcasm here . . . my favourites being “dysfunction junction,” “the family that hates together, stays together,” and “pack your bags, we’re going on a guilt trip.” Those of you that know me well, know my family is fraught with, um, complex challenges that some may refer to as “fucked up shit.” Those that don’t know me well, now do!

Anyhoo, yesterday I had one of those moments that kind of crystallizes the whole motherhood experience and I’m in the mood to share.

My lovely son was being a terrible two from the moment I picked him up from daycare. It was in that cute way, though, and he wasn’t being unusually difficult or dare-devilish. Then, as he was tearing around the kitchen on his Pluto on wheels (yes, there is such a beast!) he collided with his highchair and started gushing blood from his nose!


I almost fainted – thankful that D Sr was present. I was ready to pack us all off to the hospital, convinced that D Jr’s nose was broken. D Sr said helpful stuff like, “There’s nothing they can do for a broken nose.” What I wanted to hear was, “His nose is not broken! His pristine visage will remain unsullied forevermore.”

Then D Jr puked up all his supper so was now covered in the fabulous blood and puke combo. D Sr decided to run a bath for our injured child in hopes of calming everyone down and clearing away some debris. D Sr’s statement to me that lots of people have broken noses that don’t heal “too crookedly” was little consolation.

Anyway, my child’s nose is not broken. He bled for about 15 minutes, enjoyed his bath and continued wreaking havoc kitchen. After the bleeding stopped, neither his nose nor face swelled up. It was a minor incident after all.

So how, then, was this a definitive motherhood moment for me, you ask?

Well for one it was one of those, “Gulp. This is just the beginning of raising a boy” feelings. His nose is not broken . . . this time. It may be broken at some point in the future and more than likely a limb will be.

Secondly, and I hate to admit this, but as he was bleeding and I was weeping and waiting for his face to swell up and as D Sr was putting our puked and bloodied child into the bathtub, I was actually thinking:

• Of what my broken-nosed teenager would look like. Would he be ridiculed and given a nick-name due to his misshapen honker?



• Of my broken-nosed son on his wedding day.

And this was all tied into a third aspect . . . that my son would be unhurt if mommy wasn’t too busy reading about Iran and Alanis Morissette’s brilliant strategic moves as of late. If mommy had been more than half-assedly supervising, maybe her sweet angel would be unhurt at this moment and hence, unscarred on his wedding day.

So, it dredged up many things. The most gut-wrenching of these things, though, was that ugly realization that pokes its head up once in awhile – as a parent you often have written your child’s entire future in your head. I have visions and preferences of a popular teenage boy growing into a successful and handsome adult man who marries a wonderful woman and produces grandchildren for me in my twilight years. I know this is ridiculous, but I admit it. At least conversations with the other mothers I know lets me realize that I’m not alone in this.

Of course, I need to find balance between “my vision” of D Jr’s life and what he wants out of his life and I’m sure that this balance is one I will be working at as long as I am breathing. I want to be the kind of parent that supports him in his endeavours and provides opportunities for him that maximize his talents and potentials, whatever they may or may not be, and I know this will be hard work. If he wants to be the most fabulous fashion designer out there I want to think that I will be happy and supportive of him and his sewing classes . . . but I have to admit that the truth is I have a vision and preferences for his adult life already. I feel fortunate in one sense that I am aware of this when he is only 18 months old.

So, sorry to over-analyze (who me?) a day in the life of Momily-hood, but I felt the need to share and vent! I could go on, but I won’t unless your comments spur me to.

Image source: the happy uber-Aryan family is not mine. Pic comes from www.epinions.com.