The danger zone

My son has turned rambunctious. And suddenly we’re dealing with the recklessness of toddlerhood, a thing that goes bump no matter what time it is.

Jack spends much of his day bouncing off the walls. Literally. When he runs at top speed, with crazy eyes and a wild holler, the walls help him change directions and maintain an upright position. Watching him, I’m reminded of Pong and bumper cars . Too bad everything in the house isn’t encircled with rubber.

Last week he dived off the arm of the sofa — on purpose, as far as I could tell. It was a nasty fall that landed him face to the floor and screaming, and a bit of his forehead quickly swelled into a goose egg.

It wasn’t his first knot or fall, but it outranked the others. We got out a flashlight and studied his pupils. Then, while we watched for signs of strange behavior, he gave a hesitant, sleepy grin and started to nod off – two hours before his bedtime.

I was sure this spelled a concussion. But how can you tell? Jack doesn’t know the president’s name or what day it is. And he’ll say “two” even if you’re holding up all of your fingers. My battery of questions included “What sound does a cow make?” and “Do you like dogs?” He responded appropriately and then stayed up until ten, and I stopped worrying.

On Sunday morning he had another great fall, this one bloody. It  started and ended on the floor in a series of trips and turns that covered a distance of several yards. I scooped him up and found a gash in his forehead. Gushing – and not with compliments.

He got a pacifier and his first butterfly bandages – stitches would have scarred him more, physically and otherwise – and all was well. Within an hour he was careening around the house again, narrow misses abounding.

I was never a graceful kid, but I was aware of it and so was also fearful of falling, afraid of skating and running and bats and balls and any combinations thereof. (Sometime I’ll share my greatest moments in sports history, but I’m not ready to confront them yet.)

I’ve always felt I ought to be more adventuresome. But watching Jack, and remembering the gashes and sprains and burns and breaks my parents had to tend to, I’m not so sure. Now I’m just hoping that Jack either starts to take after me in the fear department, or after someone else in the realm of coordination.

(I’m sure it goes without saying that I blame his father?)