Child safety can be quite dangerous

My children bring out the worst in me.

I expected a few stretch marks and a lot of lost sleep, but the biggest surprise of becoming a parent was that I became Jekyll and Hyde.

When my children do something dangerous, or anything that puts me in a position in which I might have to rescue them, I jump into action. Then, when I’m absolutely sure they’re safe, I get mad. I mean King Kong/Incredible Hulk/Russell Crowe-with-a-telephone mad.

I stop biting my lip and turn right around to bite the hands I feed.

I guess it’s genetic.

My aunt earned her place in the family legend when one of her boys climbed a backyard tree so high he couldn’t get down, and none of the tallest ladders they could find would reach him.

The fire department was called, the ladder truck was dispatched and a volunteer climbed up and brought him down.

My aunt, who was wringing her hands and sobbing hysterically, grabbed her son, held his face and kissed him repeatedly. Then something happened. A change came over her. The boy must have seen it in her eyes because he pulled away and took off, running for his life. To the amusement of the fire department and the entire neighborhood, my aunt took off after him.

Once she knew her baby was safe she wanted to kill him.

Over the years, I’ve felt that way a few times myself. Once, when my son was in kindergarten he wandered away from me in a crowded shopping mall. I searched frantically, calling his name. Time stood still even as precious, terrifying, minutes raced past.

Finally, someone asked if I was looking for a small boy and led me to where my son stood beside a stranger three store-lengths away. When my son saw me, he waved cheerily.

My response wasn’t what he expected.

I pointed an accusing finger in his direction and roared, “Don’t you smile at me.”

His smile wavered a bit and the man standing beside him looked a little troubled. What kind of monster was he handing this child over to?

I marched up to my son, grabbed his arm and hissed into his ear, “This isn’t funny,” I whispered. “And don’t you ever do that to me again.”

What had enraged me was that my son wasn’t smiling because he was relieved to see me. He had an ear-to-ear “Gotcha!” kind of grin. It all had been a game to him.

Recently, I read about Farris Hassan, the young journalism student in Florida who grabbed $1,800 from his savings, hopped a plane and flew to Baghdad to immerse himself in Iraqi culture so he could write about it.

That runaway got caught when he walked in into a cafe and tried to order something to eat using an Arabic language book.

He wandered into one of the most dangerous cities in the world and put others in a life-threatening situation when they had to rescue him. He frightened his parents and made himself look spoiled, immature and over-confident.

I studied the photo of his press conference after his return. He looked relaxed and comfortable in the spotlight. He had a big grin on his face.

I thought about how I would feel if he were my son. Then I remembered that day at the mall. And then I thought about my aunt.

I can’t help but wonder how his mother really felt when he was returned safely to her. Did she change from meek Dr. Jekyll to the angry Hyde?

I wonder if she put her lips close to his ear and whispered – through clenched teeth – the same thing I said to my son in the mall so long ago: “Stop smiling. And don’t you ever do that to me again.”