Dare devil

MM note: Nick didn’t have a lot of injuries. I only remember one broken (or sprained?) finger.

Sept. 26, 1999

3-year-olds lack of fear is often quite scary

I fear by my middle child.

Why? Because he has no fear.

At the age of 3, he gets into many spots my 6-year-old would steer clear of. He’s not afraid of heights, jumps, falls or bruises. He cries only until he gets me to kiss the affected part. Then he’s right back where he got the “ouchie” in the first place.

I don’t think he necessarily learns from his mistakes. He wants to get back on that proverbial horse before it trots off.

Not that this is bad. It’s good to be daring and take risks. However, at 3 it’s scary. For me.

I know I’ll spend time in the emergency room with this one.

Our first child, also a boy, was and still is a bit more timid. He’ll try it, but only after assurances he won’t get hurt. Even then he’s a little leery of new experiences, especially ones involving physical dexterity – and heights.

Our middle son has none of that. He walked early, ran early, climbed early and got into scrapes early. Tall for his age, he also, thankfully, has better coordination than some 3-year-olds. Otherwise he would have had a broken bone somewhere along the line already.

Take, for example, a recent newspaper employee picnic. I watched him from across the park begin to climb the monkey bars. I knew he wouldn’t come back down after a couple of rungs. A co-worker said, quite logically, “He’ll be OK. You won’t make it there in time anyway.”

So I stood, waiting anxiously, when it dawned on me what he would do: Jump. Just like he does off the top of the slide at home. Except the slide is 3 feet off the ground, not 7½. And although he would land on sand, I knew it would be a big impact for such a little boy. I took off running across the park. Luckily another co-worker saw him, too, and pulled him down from the top as I ran up.

“Your middle child has no fear,” she said to me later. “I know,” I moaned.

Then there’s the instance just the other day. The boys were playing basketball in the backyard with one of those plastic, adjustable hoops. Apparently, it tipped over and the younger brother got tangled in it.

My oldest came inside to tell me about it, like he would relay an incident that happened that morning at school.

“Mom, Nicky got caught in the basketball hoop.”

“How did he do that?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching.” Pause.

I wonder why he’s telling me this now … unless he’s still stuck.

“Is he still stuck?”

“Yes.”

“Can he get out?”

“No.” Pause.

I wait for him to give further explanation, but realizing it’s not coming and I’ve got the baby in the bathtub and no way to get out there myself I say: “Can you help him out?”

“Oh, sure,” he says and wanders out.

Within a minute I hear them squealing again as the game resumes.

Now, I not only have to worry about the middle child’s bravado, but also my oldest child’s nonchalance.

“Hey, Mom, Nicky climbed an electric pole outside,” or “Mom, you know how you said we shouldn’t play with scissors?”

I fear for my middle child.