I Kick Myself

In the past, I've established that my six-year old is a klutz. At best, it can be entertaining like watching Buster Keaton only without the awe for grace and fluency of a genius. When my son has one of those spastic moments, like picking up his backpack upside down with the zipper open or missing an open door by a foot, smacking into the wall instead, all I could do is throw my arms up in the air and hear Archie Bunker in my head as he called his son-in-law "Meat Head".

It's a phase, I know - been there, done that. Hopefully, he'll grow out of it sooner than I did. As a matter of fact, there are times I wonder if I grew out of it at all.

The other day, I stuffed my son's pockets with a wad of tissues for his allergies. As I was doing it, I thought, this is a bad idea. One, because I knew my son would never use a tissue on his own and why should he - he's got sleeves. Two, there was a strong possibility I'd forget to check his pants pockets before I threw them in the wash because really, when have I ever done that?

So ten minutes of picking out wet tissue bits from the washer, I'm thinking, at least this isn't as bad as the time I accidentally washed a disposable diaper (please tell me I'm not alone in making that stupid mistake).

As much as that warranted a "Dumb Ass Award" followed by kicking myself in the butt, it would take second place to what actually inspired it. It was a failed attempt to change how ill-prepared I am because I'm always without those things a mother should carry for emergencies. I get embarrassed when other mothers whip out their purse sized Bactine sprays and a band aid for my son's scraped knee. Why hadn't I thought of that? Look into my purse and you'd think I took tips on what to pack from Dora The Explorer.

Girl, what do you need a rope for other than hanging yourself?

So, two weeks back, my son had a nosebleed at the bus station. I searched my purse hoping that tissues would magically appear - I wouldn't even care if they were clean. There were some old receipts from CVS, empty gum wrappers and even a miniature Transformer toy! But that wasn't going to do the trick. When the blood started dripping like a leaky faucet, I noticed the old woman sitting next to him had started searching her purse for a tissue.

Time was of the essence. Though it was a nice gesture on her part, I'd inevitably feel like a bad mother who carried worthless bits of paper and transforming toys that are so complicated, I can't even tell they're broken.

I unzipped my secret compartment and found it - the only thing in my purse that came close to tissues - a panty liner. Of course, my son didn't know what it was but the lady sitting next to him certainly did. Regardless, it did the job. Now I have this fear that whenever he gets a bump or a scrape, he's going to ask me for a sanitary napkin.