Stitches Bind Us Together

Our home is flanked by two energetic families with kids who provide vibrant and enthusiastic energy in our shared cul-de-sac. These collective kids play together often as neighborhood kids do. I love watching the random and spontaneous gatherings where balls go flying and bikes go a-wheeling on any given day. They are reminders of a different time when my own kids dominated the cul-de-sac.

The young family on one side of us have three little boys. Brothers. Those of you who have brothers or are raising brothers know the life of brothers; and sisters, too, for that matter. Sometimes things happen.

This past summer has provided an awakening of brotherhood for my neighbor mom. First, her older son had an unfortunate fall after a friendly game of football, and then for the same little boy, it was a random flying rock that landed just above his chin. In the span of a few weeks, this mom and her son were off to the pediatric urgent care. First time was a broken bone, the second was treatment for a facial laceration. My heart went out to her, as I could feel her entering into a the slightly scarred world of growing and increasingly active children.

It seems like only yesterday when my kids were young, navigating the bruises and blisters of childhood. As any mother can attest to, no matter how much you try to shield your kids from mishap, things happen. I sensed an opportunity to connect with my neighbor mom with survival stories from years past. After all, there were a plethora of occasions where my kids suffered the consequences of flying objects, random falls, and playful injury.

There was the time my boys’ wild pitch landed a ball square into our neighbor’s garage window. The shatter was heard around the world (at least that’s how my “did that really just happen?” mom ears heard it). At the time, I was mortified. I’m happy to report that neighbor still lives in the same house with the replaced garage window and harbored no hard feelings.  Sometimes I look at that window and remember with fondness the gracious and kind response from him. He now gives my grandchildren popsicles in the summertime. Neighborly goodness continues.

Then there’s the time my older son hit my younger son in the head with a garden hoe. No harm was intended. Perhaps the mistake was thinking an 8-year-old could manage a garden tool while digging a hole to China. That one slipped by my keen mother’s eye. Stitches ensued.  

And then there’s the time my youngest daughter, age 2  was so infuriated with the level of insufferable brotherly “love” by her older brother, she somehow got her hands on a kitchen blender and hurled it directly at him, hitting him on his forehead. Stitches once again.

I’m happy to report my kids survived their childhood and perhaps more importantly, I did too. For young moms who find themselves in the throes of navigating minor casualties with their kids, perhaps they can find a bit of levity once they realize their child is ok. I remember these unexpected accidents feeling gargantuan at the time, yet it didn’t take long for humor to lighten the mood. I mean, who doesn’t love a good story about hitting your brother smack center on the head with a garden hoe? Such Romer family anecdotes have persevered through the test of time. Similar tales of the family next door are just beginning. My neighbor is already collecting stories about her boys’ minor calamities. Already she is voice of perspective for other, younger moms who are just getting started. In the meantime, at least in our cul-de-sac, we’re all in this together.