I was at the supermarket
I have a shocking confession

By the time anyone reads

By the time anyone reads this it will be Friday, July 25, and my eldest boy will be officially eight. We had his birthday dinner tonight, because we’ll all be out tomorrow. I was remembering today when he was a tiny little newborn, just a few days old. I had to take him back to the hospital so they could draw some blood for mandatory screening for certain genetic disorders. Now, I was as newborn of a mother as he was a person, so I marched right into that lab without a qualm. The nice phlebotomist (vampire) showed me the card with the little circles that needed to be filled in with blood. Oookay, I thought. I guess. She seems to know what she’s doing. She wrapped a tiny heating pad around my son’s tender heel, explaining that the warmth would draw blood to the surface, making it easier to get a sample. Ok, I thought.
Then she pulled out a razor and sliced his foot.
A small cut, you understand. 1/8 inch on the curve of his heel. I stared at her. Tre stared at me. We were shocked. She started squeezing his heel, a drop of blood pooling between her gloved fingers. Tre caught his breath and screamed. I looked from him to her; unable to comprehend that this woman was doing this to my baby. That I had brought him to her.
The wound dried up before she could saturate the circles on her hellish little card, so she plied her razor again. And again. Tre thrashed in my arms while I clung to him and wept.
Finally she was done. She covered his chopped heel with a Band-Aid and I pulled him close. Both Tre and I were drawing shuddery breaths, calming down. I glared at the phlebotomist. It was just so wrong.
This morning Tre and Max came screaming into my room, mid brawl. There were tears, and hurled insults. It was a few minutes before I could calm everyone down enough to get the story. They had been sword fighting with toy swords and shields. Impressive acts of swashbuckling had ranged all over the house. Finally the fight had wound down, and Max wanted to put his sword and shield away in his room. Tre was adamant that both sets of sword and shield belonged in his room. I started to declare my decision in the matter when I took another look at Tre. He was fairly dancing with anxiety. His hands grabbed at the sides of his shorts, reached up to pull his hair. His eyes were wide, but the rest of his face was pinched. I know that look. This had something to do with his dad. Somehow, this was about his dad.
I try not to say anything derogatory about my ex here, in this forum. But let me state this, as a matter of fact. It has been well over a year since he has seen his sons.
I took Tre aside and looked him in the eye.
“What is it about the swords?”
“Nothing! It’s just that…who gave them to me?” He plucked at my sleeve, shifting from foot to foot. I took his chin in my hand, redirecting his eyes to mine.
“You bought them at Kazoo’s, with Amma.” His shoulders sagged with relief. Or disappointment. I’m not sure which.
“I thought…maybe…it was Daddy.” And then, although he gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling, his chin wobbled and his eyes shone with tears.
“Oh.” I sat down on the floor and reached out to hug him. He climbed right onto my lap and buried his face in my shoulder.
“I’m starting not to remember.” His words were muffled by my t-shirt. We talked for a few minutes about his dad. That he misses him. I was realizing why Tre has been so moody lately. Small irritations have been huge deals to him, complete with screaming and foot stomping and rivers of tears. His birthday was drawing near, but his Daddy still isn’t. Gotta grieve somehow.
Even now, after all this time, Tre has a hard time talking about his dad being gone. Don’t look at that. It hurts. He only stayed on my lap for a few minutes, then bounced up and away.
But for a moment I remembered that day, in the hospital lab. Here I was again, holding my baby. Helplessly watching someone wound him.
Just so wrong.

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