The Front Porch: First-aid kit couldn’t cure son’s adventurous spirit

“Don’t worry, Mom.”

The first time I heard those three little words from my son, Alex, he was 3 years old. He yelled them as he wobbled by, perched shakily on the back of his 5-year-old brother. “Don’t play horsey in the house,” I said. “Someone is going to get hurt.”

Minutes later there was a crash, followed by a wail. That was Alex’s first set of stitches. The next time I can recall him uttering those words also involved blood – this time, not his own.

“Hey, Mom! I found a birdie,” Alex yelled through the closed bathroom door. He was in kindergarten at the time and very into nature. With three small boys underfoot, I was into trying to shower in peace. “That’s nice,” I hollered back.

“Can I keep him?” Alex asked.

“Well, you’d have to catch him first.”

“I already catched him, but he’s not moving. I think he needs water.”

With a sinking feeling I turned off the shower. “Alexander, did you bring a dead bird into my house?” No answer. I grabbed a towel and opened the door a crack to see my son holding the mangled body of a robin, long past his prime.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he said. “He’s only mostly dead.”

Our second son has always been a busy, adventurous child. We worried he’d think his first name was SlowDown. “Slow down, Alex!” we’d yell as he zipped down the driveway toward the street on his tricycle. “Slow Down,” we’d cry as he launched his skateboard off a makeshift jump. But Alex had only two speeds: fast and asleep.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” I admonished when he left for summer camp. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said. That was the year he jumped off a cliff on a dare. This time the stitches went into his knee instead of his head.

“Be careful,” I urged, when he rushed out the door, anxious to try his cousin’s new skate ramp. “Don’t worry, Mom.” Later that night the neighbor kids gathered round, eager to sign Alex’s cast. The broken arm didn’t slow him down a bit. In fact, I secretly wished it had been his leg.

I spent a fortune on bandages each summer. Bare legs meant skinned knees, lacerated calves and scraped up ankles. There wasn’t a tree he didn’t leap out of, a skateboard or bike jump high enough for him. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he’d say, when I chased him down and made him buckle his helmet.

Last summer I heard the familiar rumbling sound of a plastic Big Wheel tricycle. That’s odd, I thought. Sam outgrew that long ago. From the living room window, I saw my 15-year-old son careening down the hill on his brother’s old tricycle.

“Whoo hoo!” Alex yelled. As I ran to the door I heard a car, honking wildly. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said when he saw me on the front steps. “He missed me.”

In a few days my adorable imp will be 16. Every vestige of babyhood has long been erased with exception of his sapphire eyes and his mischievous grin. He delights in towering over me. My worries have grown right alongside him.

He leaves the house at 7:30 each morning, and I don’t see him again until after soccer practice at 6 o’clock. Does he look both ways when he crosses the street to catch the school bus? I don’t know. Does he eat a nutritious lunch, considering I rarely can get breakfast down him? Beats me.

I still go through a lot of bandages. “Where’s the Ace wrap?” he bellows after a particularly brutal game.

Like most kids, he’s got a plan for his 16th birthday. That plan involves a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I’d like to go with him on his drive test. There are things I feel the examiner should know.

Because Alex disdained both biking and skating helmets, I think he should have to wear a racing helmet when he drives. I also think the DMV should put Slow Down Alex on his license.

But I’m just a mother. No one listens to me. In a few weeks Alex will rush into the kitchen grab a snack and ask for the keys. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he’ll yell, as he backs out of the driveway.

Yeah. Right.