Numerous events have caused me to thank God for helping me take care of my children in my relatively short career as a mom, but this one takes the cake!
One time when Mark was 15 months old, he followed me up the stairs and I didn’t know it. When I reached the landing, I turned around and there he was, half-way up … and then he stood up! I tried not to act alarmed, and sauntered nonchalantly past him down the stairs and got right behind him. Breathed a big sigh of relief. Thank you, God.

Then there was that time I was bustling around the kitchen. All of a sudden I realized Mark was quiet. Too quiet. I looked over. He was contemplating a knife, both hands around the handle, point up. Not a butter knife, but one of the ones from the butcher block. I realized then that he could reach the dish drainer. I grabbed for it. My mistake. A tug of war ensued. Fortunately, neither of us went flying, nor did the knife stab any part of either of us. Thank you, God.

One time when Baby Chase was five months old and he was in his walker, he discovered the ficus plant. I had to extract a whole bunch of leaves from his mouth. I thought those were poisonous, but apparently not. Thank you, God.

Right after Baby Chase started walking he pitched forward into the bathtub. I couldn’t catch him and cringed as his face broke his fall. I was so sure he broke his nose. Then I saw that all the blood was coming out of his mouth. I ran cold water on the washcloth and tried to clean him up, rinsing and reapplying repeatedly. He was shrieking and of course this freaked Mark out, and I was trying to keep Baby Chase’s face turned away from Mark so he wouldn’t see the blood. It was only when Baby Chase took his bottle and was able to drink from it that I figured he didn’t need to go to the emergency room. Thank you, God.

There were numerous other events that have caused me to thank God, including tricycle wipeouts from which Mark emerged unscraped as well as running and tripping while carrying magic markers that resulted in a colored forehead (as opposed to a poked out eye). I am sure that as time passes, Baby Chase will be plenty more in need of God’s watchful eyes, as he is so intrepid as to inspire the nickname “SuperBaby,” bestowed upon him by the lifeguard at our town beach for Baby Chase’s sand and water and antics as well as ambassadorship to all strange animals that wander onto the beach.

But this episode takes the cake. We were at a 4th of July party and it had been a very long, exciting day culminating in skydivers jumping into the backyard of this party and Mark only had a short car nap on the way back from activity #1, lunch at Grammie and Papa’s country club where he went swimming for the very first time in his life, which in itself, must have taken a huge amount of mental, never mind physical, energy.

He wanted to go home, so he just took off down the driveway. I was trying to say goodbye to the hostess and other guests, and he said “Mommy, come on!” for the 2nd or third

He just took off.

The car was almost at the end of a long downhill driveway that let out onto a street with no sidewalk, so there was no distinct barrier where the driveway ends and the street begins. Mark and I have an ongoing battle with parking lots and walking in public in general, as he rarely wants to hold my hand or even the stroller. He says, “no, WALK!” as if walking and holding my hand (or the stroller) are mutually exclusive. I could hear cars whizzing by, but in retrospect, I realized those cars were driving on the major route that goes parallel to the road the party was on.

This all happened so fast. I called, “Mark.” “MARK!” “MARK JR.!!!!!!” Then “Stop! No!” as I was speedwalking, then running, then all out flying down the driveway, having flung all the bags I was schlepping. I was sure he would stop at the car and he didn’t. And then I knew he was in God’s hands because there was no way I would catch him by the time he reached the end of the driveway.

And then he just stopped at the end of the driveway. I was upon him in an instant.

I swooped him up and hugged him to me so tightly – maybe too tightly – and tried not to smile (which sometimes happens when I am nervous) because this was serious. He said, “Ha ha, funny!”

And I said, “NO! IT ISN’T! IT’S NEVER FUNNY WHEN YOU RUN AWAY FROM MOMMY!”

“Why, Mommy?”

“Street. Cars. Danger!” “Mommy was scared! It’s NOT funny!”

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Please, Marky. Don’t do things like that!”

I was holding him all this time and he wanted to be set free, but I would not let him go. We waited for Daddy to come with the keys. I made sure I told Daddy the story in front of Mark, just as I reiterate stories where I am proud of him (supermarket shopping, swimming).

Later on, we were lying on the floor together playing with his trains. He said. “Mommy sad. Mark run away. Street. Cars fast.”

“That’s right, Mark.” I said. “Mommy sad. Mommy scared. Mommy angry. Dangerous.”

“Why, Mommy?”

“Because cars go fast in the street. What do you think would happen if you ran out into the street and a car was coming? Or what if a car was coming into the driveway?

“Car bump Mark.”

“Yes, honey, car bump you, and it could hurt you! It could break you. And then Mommy would be so sad. Mommy loves you so much, Mark Jr. Mommy doesn’t want you to get hurt. Mommy doesn’t want you to get broken. Ever!”

“Here you go, Mommy. Thomas Engine. Your turn!”

Thank you, God.

About the Author

Caroline De Binder is a business writer and editor for technology companies as well as a network marketer. She has two sons, ages 2 and 3. This story is from her book, “Mothermorphosis,” which celebrates the transformation into motherhood. Please visit www.MotherMorphosis.com to find out how you can submit a story about parenting for an upcoming book.