Oh the best laid plans of mice and mummies with silly ideas.
Today I got the phone call I have been dreading since the day Finn started nursery.
"Miss May? This is the nursery. Finley has had an accident and the ambulance is on it’s way. Can you get here as soon as possible?"
Oh. My. God. I don’t think you understand. I’m not a fully fledged Mummy yet. I’ve only been doing this for two years and I really don’t think I’m up to the challenge of accidents outside the home and ambulance’s and blood and babies. No I’m sorry I can’t come. I’m not old enough to deal with this. I will phone my Mum and she can come and see what horror you have inflicted on my precious little boy. And no, don’t blame yourself. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault he fell off his chair and bit his tongue off. The child is a liability and it was wrong of me to inflict him on you. And I can’t find a bra, and I’m not wearing any make up. And what if the doctor is very good looking? And what if my son’s blood is splattered up the nursery walls? I’m no good in a crisis, I talk too much. Is it raining? Oh I’m sorry I can’t possibly come. I haven’t got an umbrella. A blizzard you say? Well that’s it then, phone me tomorrow when this has all been a bad dream and I can worry about Christmas again and the shortage of decent educational toys around these days. WHAT THE BLAZING HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BABY??? Goodness I’m sorry about that, I will be there in two ticks…
So I went. And there he was with his tongue still intact and a hole in his chin, lying on his teachers knee hugging a Christmas sock. And there was Mark. Holding his hand. And three ambulance man, and a policeman and a lot of fascinated kids.
And me. Biting back the tears as my little boy told me what had happened and made sure I fully understood what my role in all of this was to be: "No talking, or shouting, or songing, Mummy. It’s happened. The chair happened to my chin and now I’m going in the nee naw with Daddy, not you Mummy."
So we went. Me and Mark and Finley and my Dad and my sobbing Mum. To the hospital. Where we were told that the hole was a scratch and Finley laughed a lot and I talked nonsense and then we were back in my Dad’s car and Finn was suddenly dazed and confused and perfectly fine and I was more tired than I ever remember being.
Which is all well and good, except or the fact that I was supposed to be going out tonight with Mark to see the live stage show of Little Britain (don’t ask) which is in fact truly awful, but I really wasn’t bothered because nothing pleases me more than sitting in the faded grandeur of the Liverpool Empire theatre, no matter what I’m watching. But because of the fear of concussion, and the fact that I thought he might need the full attention of his Mummy after his trauma, I am instead, here, curled up in my armchair yet again, while Mark galivants around town without me (It was his Christmas present from me last year, so I couldn’t not let him go) and I watch mindless tv and ponder on what possessed me to imagine that I might for once escape the confines of these four walls and enjoy myself …
Little boys should come with danger signs.