Last Friday, I nearly killed Mikey, by not catching him as he rolled head first down the entire flight of stairs in our house. This is made worse by the fact that two and a half years ago, I nearly killed Matthew, by not catching him as he rolled head first down the entire flight of stairs in our house.
I can confirm that when you are standing on the top step, watching your child almost die, everything goes blurry and into slow motion, and you can hear yourself screaming, but it doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like a dog yelping after it’s been run over.
I drove him to the hospital, with the fella and Matthew. Matthew kept parroting “Mikey rolled and rolled and rolled, but I didn’t catch him”. Jesus Christ.
Mikey, hard of head and brute of force, of course was fine. He may have shucked off another of his nine lives, but he was running around A&E, making a mockery of us within twenty minutes of being there.
We stayed for observation for the allotted number of hours, showing the boys around the hospital that we know so well. I had a little cry in the toilet, and while I was sitting in the cubicle, realised that I had cried in this exact cubicle many, many times. I spoke to parents who are living there with their sick children, and counted my blessings as my two whooped and cheered at the giant fish tank outside Nazareth Ward, where I know very very sick children lie.
So, we are lucky ducks. And I spent the weekend beating myself about nearly killing my kids, tearfully roaring at the fella: “I KNOW you think I’m a shit mother. I KNOW you blame me”.
Anyway, he’s grand. But he needs to stop this living in the fast lane business. And obviously, I need to stop throwing my kids down the stairs.