The Bloody Nose - Part I

This story occured almost exactly four years ago...really.

I glance at the kitchen clock and decide to start a little early; we have 23 minutes to make a 12 minute drive to school, and for my little daily miracle to take place. At school there is a 15 minute window when SOMEONE ELSE will take my kids out of the car. Currently, it is one of life’s great pleasures. Eight months into pregnancy with baby #3, it doesn’t take much to make me happy.

I am sick-- slight fever, nose stuffed, and feeling generally lousy. All I want to do is lie down. And that is why today, I need an extra dose of "I’m a good mommy." So I broke with morning tradition and let my kids outside; they frolick in their boots, in the puddles left over from last night’s rain.

In a moment of hormone-induced madness, I lock the back door. I never lock the back door. We live in a town where unlocked cars with $100 dollar bills left openly on the front seat will sit for only minutes before a neighbor comes by to make sure everything is OK and hands you the money back plus an extra little something…just in case.

I push the button to open the garage door. As it opens, I spot a neighborhood dog running loose. Suddenly, I sneeze. I look into my hand and find blood...lots of it. Our dog, always eager for a view of the world that does not include a fence, is at my heels when I open the door. At the exact moment of my sneeze, his black four-legged body zooms past my knees, out the door. I think “Hey!” then, “Oh s---t, he’s seen the other dog!” I turn back into the house, grab a tissue, and then take off after our dog.

21 minutes remain With tissue compressed to my nose, my unborn child and I lumber after our dog, past my kids, commanding in the sternest voice I can muster to “COME!” The dog either ignores me or doesn’t understand nose bleed talk.

The sternness of my command does however, have an effect on my daughter. She is caught completely off guard, not sure who is yelling and positive that thing that is going after the dog is not her mother. She freaks and runs to the back door, which, is now locked. I hear her begin to cry. I yell for her to come back around the house, but she isn’t going anywhere without an escort.

My son is watching the whole thing with great curiosity, I imagine (I didn’t actually get a chance to stop and ask him). He comes trotting after me. I holler for him to go get his sister; however, the dogs and I prove to be much more interesting. He follows me instead. I triage the situation quickly. If I leave my daughter at the back door crying, a) she will not get hurt, b) she is actually safer there than watching her mother sprint with a bloody tissue, cursing under her breath, after the dog, and c) she will mostly likely not remember this incident. Therefore, it will not cost her any future sessions with her future therapist.

On the other hand the dog is a) the cause of my frustrations, and b) an easy target that generates minimal guilt. I continue my jog after the dog, tissue held to my nose.

My neighbor drives by, honks and WAVES!

17 minutes remaining
I revert to threatening the dog with his life. I know he doesn’t understand, but he certainly understands tone. He turns, takes a wide path around me and heads back to the house. My daughter’s cries...no howls...suddenly register with me. I realize I may have underestimated how traumatizing the situation is. This may actually cost her two sessions with her therapist.

16 minutes remaining As I follow the dog, and pass my son, I tell him to get his sister. He turns and trots to the back door, but not before asking “Mom? Why do you have that red thing on your face?” I remove the tissue for second, and notice the blood has completely soaked through. It is indeed a "red thing."

Completely out of breath, I stumble back into the house, supporting myself with the doorknob, and glance at the clock. If we leave right now, we'll make drop off. As I grab for another tissue, with the other free hand, I pick up my purse, two sweaters for the dry cleaners, a package of hooks to be returned, and library books that are overdue. I close the door behind me...with my foot.

I dump all the stuff on to the front seat of the car. My son appears in the garage with his sobbing sister in tow. I go around the car, lift her into her seat and at try to buckle her one-handed. I need two. I tilt my head back, balance the tissue on my face and attempt to buckle the car seat, cursing at the person who made them mandatory. I am in “Mommy Stance.” Mommy Stance is when a mother (for dads never seem to do it) contorts her body in some weird and highly unnatural way in order to accomplish some relatively easy task. This task is usually attempted in difficult and extreme circumstances…like having too many things in your hands. Suddenly, a drop of blood escapes. Before I can catch it, it drops onto my daughter's jeans. She starts to scream.

I take complete advantage of the moment. The tissue falls to the floor as I wipe off her pants with my shirt and using both hands quickly buckle her in, all with my head tilted back. Then all I have to do is calm her down. I check the blood spot on her pants. “Look,” I say, “it looks like a dog.” She quiets and I am thankful it looks like paint.

My son, seat belt on, is now asking questions, one after another, leaving me no room to breathe, let alone think. “Why is that dog loose? Why did our dog run out of the house? Does he know that other dog? Where is that other dog going? Why did you yell at our dog? Are you mad at him? Why is…?”

15 minutes remain. I glance at the car clock. I have 15 minutes to make a 12 minute drive. I turn to my son and tell him, as calmly as I can, that this is no time for questions. I reach for the keys.

Where are the keys! The questions start again “Momma, are you mad? Why are you mad? What does %#$%^ mean? Is that a bad word?” I search my seat; check the floor. I get out and search under the kids…no keys.


To Be Continued…