Panic 101

Good heavens.

I took off from work for the afternoon because the lad of almost-three was just desperate to decorate that new Christmas tree we put up last night. The plan was to light the tree so we could decorate as soon as he awoke from his nap. While I was in the dining room organizing lights, Mr. The Booch was climbing to the top of the staircase to take said siesta.

Then, the unmistakable sound of thud-bam-rumble-whack. From the first split second, I knew it for what it was, and like a shot I was around the corner. There's my darling boy at the bottom of the stairs, trapped in a wedge between the bottom step and the gate door after a tumbling crash. His mother charged down from his bedroom where she was getting things ready, but I was first on the scene to swoop him up.

Adrenaline rushes are something, eh? Heightened senses, pumped up for action, but a strange sense of calm. Or not calm, but preparedness. Focus. An evolutionary birthright that helps to ensure our survival. Action Daddy was on the case, comforting the offspring while checking for injuries. Alert? Check. Lots of crying, but no grabbing or yelling about a single spot. Says his foot hurts, but can move it and doesn't flinch when I touch it. Other foot too? Check. 'It's okay, buddy. Daddy's got you now.'

Only after he was safely in his mother's arms a moment later was I able to process emotions, like the feeling of my heart in my throat out of fear. The reservoir of sorrow that would spill over if he was badly hurt. But he calmed quickly, considering. Three minutes later, he was contentedly taking a break from the crying to watch his fire engine video tape. After that, he wanted to help me put the lights on the tree.

That little bean came out of that terrible fall with not a single bruise or scratch on him. It would have surely left me limping for days, if not longer.

He never did get that nap, but the tree is lovely.