Magic Spray

I miss the days of boo boos and owies. I have found recently that I cannot truly be friends with someone whose children possess the self-preservation gene, because as a defect, all five of mine are noticeably without it. Being a mother of children with a complete disregard for life and limb means that I spend more of my days applying direct pressure than I do sweeping and mopping.

My second child is quite often the culprit, he is desperate to diffuse tense situations with humor and has little regard for the consequences. Additionally, I believe that the veil of understanding between what is reality and what is fiction is a little thin with this one. One afternoon a few years back, after watching his favorite superhero movie, he decided that if Spiderman could traverse a tensile thread, HE could scale a garden rake balanced precariously between two kitchen chairs. Two tentative steps from the launch pad, his feet slid to either side of his balance beam and he painfully straddled the wooden handle, his head punching through the drywall like it was tissue paper. (Did I mention that my children have freakishly large craniums also?) Careful application of a “poor baby” here and a kiss on the swollen lump attempting conquer his forehead, and he was back to blissfully playing.

My four-year old, who has as much courage as he lacks in grace, is the most wonderful example. At least two dozen times during my day, he approaches me whimpering or wailing with a battle wound. Countless times during the week I wonder if it is going to leave permanent physical damage. So, in answer to this, I developed my “magic spray.” I found a pocket perfume bottle and filled it with water. Each time he approaches me with an invisible wound, I give the affected area a little spray, and a kiss and he is miraculously cured, even down to the complete cessation of tears.

I am constantly amazed what the knowledgeable practice of Mommy Medicine can do, but as my children get older my magic spray is becoming less effective and in the case of my more cynical eldest son, he doubts its medicinal properties altogether. So, I am going to increase my arsenal of Magic Mommy supplies, for those moments when magic spray just isn't going to work.

Nair, is going to be the first addition. As the age of my children increases, the number of children who are popular by intimidation have also. Most of these kids have the intellectual equivalent of the contents of their lunchbox and base their entire self-worth on the fact that they are physically attractive. My oldest son has patiently faced such a child, her hair is thick and silky, her eyes are a captivating blue, her mother has dressed her directly from some name-brand catalog, and her over-sized-pre-teen teeth are nearly straight, which is a marked improvement over her like-minded peer group. Therefore she has become the self-appointed queen of the pre-pimple people. Being confronted with this sweet-faced she-troll on a fairly regular basis, I have pondered the medicinal benefits to my oldest child of just slipping a small amount of the hair-dissolving syrum in her shampoo and observing how quickly she is dethroned.

Bubble wrap will also be joining my fix-all arsenal. The same oldest son recently decided to abandon his use of peripheral vision, which is a very important God-given gift to people who intend to live past their teens. While kindly pushing a neighbor child on a swing set, he took one misjudged step backward into the path of my daughter's oncoming swing. The heel of her shoe connected with the bridge of his nose and he plummeted to the grass like a rag doll. (I must enter a side note here, that when I embarked on this mission of motherhood, I would faint when my children were given immunizations. I was marveled three years ago when I merely vomited after stitches at an ER visit, and am pleased to announce that I was only severely nauseated during this latest saga.) While we sat patiently and waited for his x-rays, I noticed several yellowing photographs of children engaged in different activities wearing protective gear, framed on their wall. One child was holding his baseball bat, poised in anticipation and covered with pillows which were duct taped to his limbs. Another child was running a relay race clad in full-plate armor. Yet another was playing soccer shrouded in bubble wrap. Since armor would be prohibitively heavy and pillows would just look paranoid and ridiculous, I have decided that bubble wrap is the way to go. His five stitches, eight nasal fractures and need for complete reconstructive surgery may not have been solved with a kiss on his boo boo, but would have been entirely prevented by a fashionable bubble wrap bavaclava.

Lastly, in the non-conventional motherhood first-aid kit would be chloroform, for those moments that no amount of hugging, soothing, comforting, talking or ice-cream can help. I have mentioned that a mere 20 percent of my offspring are female and though that brings me great longing it also brings me great comfort because no trip to the emergency room is going to mend her broken feelings. I have tried every psychological trick that I have garnered from my years of therapy, complaining about my mother the way that my children will undoubtedly grossly overpay someone else to complain about me. As the years compound, the number of hours spent soothing a broken heart increase and the conclusion to the session is more frequently a sobbing, “Mom, you just don't understand.” Therefore, since the conclusion will be the same defeatist declaration, wouldn't we all feel better with a good nap? You have heard the saying, “Get some sleep, you'll feel better in the morning.” I am just applying good old-fashioned wisdom that has minimally worked for centuries.

I combat my helplessness with sarcasm and humor, but I guess I am having a hard time acknowledging the passage of time. My eldest turns twelve this week, and I miss the days that Mom could solve anything with a kiss and a pat on the head. I really cannot pinpoint when life got so much more complicated for my little minions. My husband teases that I am “a mama bear on steroids,” but I have decided that the best medicine that I can employ is to be their coach--standing ringside with a towel, a box of tissues and a tub of ice-cream and ready to tag-team and fight the good fight when the situation arises.