[QUOTE=Caricci]
I was crying about it last night and it’s almost 7 years ago that this happened.
[/QUOTE]
(((hugs))) – You’re not alone, we’ve all done similar things.
There’s another thread around here somewhere about how parenting turns parents’ brains to oatmeal.
[QUOTE=fessie]
(((hugs))) – You’re not alone, we’ve all done similar things.
There’s another thread around here somewhere about how parenting turns parents’ brains to oatmeal.
[/QUOTE]
Thank you, fessie.
This past summer we moved into an old house in need of serious rehab. There was a bathroom on the 2nd floor that had been gutted to the point that some of the floor is missing, as is some of the ceiling in the den below. We kept this room closed off, of course. Adjacent to this room upstairs is a bedroom that has a loose piece of paneling over a port in the wall that gives access to the plumbing for the gutted bathroom. We’ve been using this bedroom for storage. It, too, was kept closed. Neither of the kids could work door knobs.
One early fall Sunday afternoon I was downstairs on the couch feeling rather crabby. My husband was rummaging around doing I don’t know what (he was the object of my crabbiness). The girls were wandering around doing whatever 3.5yr old and 18mo olds do. The youngest was getting close to nap time and had been fussing. The fussing got louder. I wondered why my husband didn’t just put her down for her nap since she was upstairs with him. The fussing got very loud, then I hear, “Solfy, come quick! Bring a ladder!” I ran to the den to grab a ladder only to see my baby’s legs dangling from the hole in the ceiling.
The door to the spare bedroom had been left open while my husband was moving things around. The 18mo old was chasing the cat and crawled through the port in the wall into the gutted bathroom. The only thing that kept her from falling 10’ to the hardwood below was her overalls which had caught on some plumbing. I grabbed a ladder and eased her through the hole. She only had some minor scrapes on her belly.
This even took five years off my life and my husband’s. He boarded up the hole and there are locks on both doors now.
Either parents in my family are really careless, or kids in my family have a way of falling off things:
My aunt got up in the middle of the night to take care of my cousin, who was around 10 months to a year old. Finally, she manages to lay down and get the baby back to sleep in bed with her. A few hours later, she wakes up groggy with her left arm numb and the urge to turn over. She lays on her back, but her arm still feels heavy. Confused and sleepy and now starting to be afraid for her arm, she jerks it…just as she realizes she just rolled her daughter off the bed. Onto the hard wood floor. (Thankfully, there was a basket of laundry she partially fell into.)
I, famously, escaped my grandmother when I was 8 months old or so, and rolled behind the bed. There was a bit of panic.
However, my grandmother had experience to fall back on in that case. When my uncle was about 18 months old, he climbed head-first behind his crib and got stuck upside down. Picture a woman home alone with a 4 year old, an infant, and her son stuck upside down behind the crib. The only thing for it was to move the crib away from the wall and let him fall the rest of the way. She couldn’t pull him out by his feet and my grandpa wasn’t going to be home for hours.
Caricci, I’d have done the same. Y’all are making me feel a lot better about that time I fell asleep on the couch with the front door open when the girl was a toddler. My grandma stopped by for a visit and found her playing in the front yard.
The one that stands out the most is when my son was about six months old. He was sitting in his high chair and I was feeding him. I removed the tray and stood up to place it on the counter behind me. As soon as I turned I heard a boom and there was my poor baby face first on the kitchen floor.
Some crying was involved but other than that he was fine.
Oh and there was the time when he was just over two and he was playing at my moms house. He kept putting toys in the dog crate and then getting them out again. He thought it was a fun game. I was trying to keep him busy so I put all his toys in there but I guess one was to far back and he started to crawl in to get it and got stuck. Much screaming was involved but once I got him loose I realized he had not shed a tear. He was just scared.
I was a stay-at-home Dad for the first two and a half years of my daughter’s life, so it was just me and Elizabeth all day, every day. We live in a split level, so you come in the front door and there are half a dozen stairs up and half a dozen stairs down. Our main living area is the upstairs. When Elizabeth was born, we pretty thoroughly childproofed the upstairs. We kept all of the doors to the individual rooms closed, the kitchen had a safety gate, and the only things in our living room were two big couches and a television far too large for her to pull it over. So it was really just that staircase.
We bought a safety gate for the staircase. It was a pretty quality product; in order to open the gate, you had to step down on a footpad (using a fair bit of force), then life the gate up out of its latch, then pull the gate toward you.
I worked from home. As my daughter got into the crawling-about stage, she needed occassional breaks from my attention and I needed to work, so I’d strew her various toys around the living space and just let her crawl freely. I’d sit in the living room. She’d crawl around the living room, and down the hallway - all such that I could see her all the time. I’d plop my laptop in my lap and work, and she’d explore and eventually come play with my keyboard, which was my indication that she was ready for more Daddy time. It was a good system, and it worked for us.
Then, one morning, we were doing the usual and I realized I needed a piece of paper that was on the dining room table. I went and combed through the mess, found what I was seeking, then turned around. I didn’t see Elizabeth at all. That was odd. And there was something else off, but I couldn’t place what it was for a moment, and so I spent a second or two surveying the visible area. I couldn’t figure out why my stomach was dropping, and then it came together: the gate was open.
When I saw the gate open, I can honestly say it was the single worst moment of my entire life so far. I’ve been fortunate enough to have a pretty uneventful life, and the concept of “terror” was alien to me. Anyway, I bolted for the staircase, but the thud happened before I got there. It couldn’t have taken me more than half of one second to get to the top of the stairs - our house is pretty small - but in that time I can distinctly remember: (1) experiencing that stark terror; (2) hearing the thud; and (3) hoping and hoping that the next thing I’d hear would be crying, because silence would be much worse.
I hit the top of the stairs and saw Elizabeth lying on her back near the front door. She starting bawling immediately. I scooped her up, called the doctor, who said to look for signs of nausea, confusion, or lethargy. There were none, and two minutes later she was throwing her favorite butterfly toy from one side of the room to the other. She was fine.
I kind of wasn’t. I know it was pretty mild, as these stories go, but it was the most scared I’ve ever been. I’m pretty sure I was more upset than she was. I think a part of me lives in that moment every single time she’s out of my sight.
Ugh, why did I tell that story? Now I’m freaked out.
Okay, this one is far less scary but far more embarrassing, and happened just a few days ago.
I’m in the bathroom. It’s that time of the month. I realized that the new bag of pads is, indeed, sitting on the dining room table. So I do a perfunctory wipe, pull up panties with the old gross pad still on it and dodge into the dining room to grab the new pads.
My daughter, aged 2, starts laughing at me, runs ahead down the hall, into the bathroom and slams the door shut and locks it. She’s NEVER so much as touched a lock before! I have no idea what possessed her. Nor do I have a key. In fact, I don’t have a keyhole - it’s one of those old solid Victorian era doors with no keyhole on the outside.
We try to talk her through turning the lock. No dice.
I take off the doorknob. Nope. The lock is separate from the doorknob. So now I’m talking a two year old into putting the doorknob back through the tiny hole at her end so I can at least put the screws back in and rattle it ineffectively.
She starts crying. We stop asking her to turn the lock, the “butterfly”, the “other bit, not the handle”, and instead start singing the ABC song to try to calm her down.
Hubby calls the landlord and tells him we have a toddler stuck in the bathroom. Luckily, he has kids, so he understands.
Meanwhile, dinner is burning in the oven.
Landlord comes over, wet from his shower, with three massive keychains full of old skeleton keys he doesn’t know what goes to what, and then realizes this door doesn’t have a keyhole, anyway!
Finally I remember that the window is unlocked, thanks to my habit of opening it an inch after showers to cool and dehumidify the room! So the landlord goes downstairs to fetch a ladder so he can climb through the bathroom window.
We wait. We sing. I suddenly remember that I never flushed the toilet that my landlord is about to crawl across to rescue my child. Which not only has your normal everyday toilet things in it, but massive amounts of monthly - I think you get the idea. :smack:
“Sweetie…go flush the toilet.”
“What?”
“The toilet. Go flush it. Flush it, flush it, hurry, hurry!”
“What?”
“Go. Flush. The. Toilet.”
“Why?”
“AAAAAAARRRRGHHHHH!” Brain to oatmeal. “Flush the toilet, honey.”
“This?” handle rattles
“Yes. Flush the toilet.”
“What?”
:smack:
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Flush toilet?”
“Yes! Flush the toilet!”
flush Whew!
Grossness averted, child rescued, and we spent the next three days learning how to UNDO a lock!
I was walking down the stairs of our 6 flat in Uptown when I stumbled carrying my 1 yr old daughter. Came within an inch of the both of us going over the edge and three stories onto the parking lot.
When we moved back here from Cape Girardeau when my son was just a wee one, we were renting an apartment on the third floor of a six flat. I had put son down for his nap, and not hearing anything from his room, assumed he was sleeping.
Doorbell rings - it was a neighborhood kid and he says, “Your kid is about to fall out the window”. I panicked - ran in his room and sure enough, he had pushed out the screen and was leaning out the window (he wasn’t even two yet I don’t think) and waving to the kids in the parking lot and generally squirreling all over the place. I grabbed him, thanked the kid profusely, and had a prompt breakdown. After which I rearranged the furniture.
It still makes me sick just thinking about it now - seriously, I feel just sick remembering it. And he’s 17. Just picturing it in my head - I swear I’m going to go throw up.
WhyNot almost did something horrible to her landlord! 
Geez … I always thought I wanted kids eventually, but now I’m not so sure…
When I was a toddler, my mother let me play out in the fenced-in backyard of our apartment building (we lived on the second floor). She kept the balcony door open so she could see and hear me; the fence was high enough that she was sure I couldn’t climb over it, and the gate was securely locked. Anyway, one day she was peeking out every few minutes or so, and then all of a sudden I wasn’t there. She totally freaked. We lived in Detriot at the time, in a dubious neighborhood, and there was some kind of festival going on in the streets that day, so she was convinced I’d been kidnapped by some college students high on LSD or something. She could barely speak English at the time, so she was running around the neighborhood frantically, using what words she could to ask people if they’d seen me.
It turned out that I was sitting right against the wall of the building, directly below the balcony. Which is why she couldn’t see me when she looked outside. I guess I didn’t hear her calling me either. She says she’s never been so terrified in her life, before or after that. I guess I should be grateful my parents didn’t lock me up in a dungeon after that incident for their own peace of mind.
I believe I “lost” my son (who is now nine and - as far as I know - sitting at his desk at school) at least three times. Is it a sign of bad parenting that I remember twice, but after that it gets really fuzzy because it became such an ordinary occurrance? My daughter is a daydreamer, she is always stopping to smell the flowers. My son started walking at a year and tried out for the Olympic track team at 14 months - since my kids are 13 months apart, this has presented challenges - and a couple of “well, I have her, but he has completely disappeared” moments.
I’ve lost him in a park with a pond at a train museum where they had working trains out on the trainyard (!) and - at least once and more likely more than once, under the racks at the store.
I also jumped into a lake in Minnesota in November when he fell off the dock shortly before the lake froze. But I don’t think that was bad parenting since I was right there with him and he just slipped.
Carricci - mine was febrile seizures. We’d made a big deal out the first one only to be told by the emergency room physcian that these weren’t a big deal and nothing to worry about. So the next time he had one, we didn’t worry, which was followed by five more before we thought to call the doctor - who completely freaked out. Went to the emergency room and were told “don’t worry.” Then he KEPT having them and we ended up spending the day in the hospital with a neurologist. Never had another one.
Oh, I once forgot my kids at daycare. My clock stopped and when I got the phone call at 6:45 (daycare closes at 6:30) I thought it was 4:30 (I usually picked them up at 5:00).
And I’ve sent them out to wait for a bus in the cold and snow on days they don’t have school.
It’s good to know that I’m not the only one but I think I’ll be shuddering a little over my incident when I’m in the nursing home.
Ok, it was a Friday in early December. I needed to get the packet of revised, signed papers to our loan officer at her office across town so that we could close on our house. Dh was working 70 miles away (hence our move) and I had the twins. They were about 22 months old. So they’re walking and “talking” (sometimes loudly) but nowhere near understanding anything logical.
Get them dressed and out the door, down the sidewalk to the parking lot. They’re way too big for me to carry them both and it’s nerve wrecking whenever we’re out since they’re both capable of dashing off, but fortunately our complex’s parking lot is very safe, in terms of location and number of cars.
I’ve got the smaller car, the 2-door Focus, which is a pain when it comes to buckling the kids in and requires some contortion. Flip the switch, bend the seat, slide it forward, hustle toddlers.
I’m in a big hurry to get to the banker before noon, IIRC she was taking the afternoon off to go Christmas shopping. So I get them buckled, dig some toys out of the foot well for them, perch my ass on the front seat, grab the handle and slide my chair back in place.
WHOOSH!!
There is a giant yellow cloud in my car.
fizzzzzz…
Why?
fizzzz…
Why is there a giant yellow cloud in my car?
Why is a giant yellow cloud advancing toward my kids in the backseat?
And what is that fizzing sound?
Well, being the safety-minded daughter of a safety-minded construction worker, I always carried a fire extinguisher in my car, under my seat.
Which I somehow managed to discharge.
(turns out that yellow powder isn’t dangerous unless you somehow eat big handfuls of it — I contacted dh after leaving the car wash and he looked up the MSDS online, as I completed my errand) (the kids were hysterical pretty much the whole time)
Let’s see. I tossed my infant son into the air… and into the spinning ceiling fan.
I sat on my infant daughter while she was snuggled among the blankets on the unmade bed.
Both are fine (or at least, undetectably damaged) today.
My third child was left in the car once while I headed into a restaurant. He was a newborn then and I wasn’t used to counting 1-2-3 as I was removing children from the car. “1-2” was sufficient up until then. He was fetched out before I hit the door, though.
I hit the brakes once and discovered that the guys at the carwash had unbuckled the carseats to vacuum the seat and hadn’t refastened them. Nobody was hurt, but it was quite a surprise.
We didn’t buy shoes for our daughter until after she learned to walk. The first day we put them on her, we head out to the park to run around for a while before church. She toddled around happily in the grass for a few minutes and then hit the edge of the side walk and went down, straight onto her forehead. She was okay, but had a big scrape there. It wasn’t going to be the last time, though, she had a lighter patch there for years.
There was also the time I took them out scootering on their Razors after a rain. We walked across wet grass to get to the track and about two yards after he took off, my son’s foot slipped and he went down hard. The sound of that helmet on the sidewalk made a believer out of me.
I don’t have kids, but I do have a story to share which still makes me feel horrible to this day.
I was babysitting my roommate’s 2 year old. He had hearing problems (they found out shortly after this that he was about 80% deaf), so he couldn’t speak at all yet, but he was of course big enough to walk around, point to things, etc. So, we watched some movies, we played with some stuff, and after awhile I noticed he seemed upset about something. I never had little brothers and sisters, so I couldn’t figure out what his problem was. He’d go in the kitchen and look all sad eyed and stomp his feet and following me around whimpering and WHAT THE HELL DID HE WANT??? Finally at some point I looked at a clock and realized: omigod, FOOD!!! It was like five and I’d never fed the poor little guy lunch! 
I felt awful…made him some macaroni and cheese and apologized profusely while he wolfed it down. I still feel crappy about that. Poor guy - not able to tell me he was starvin’! All I can do is plead ignorance when it comes to kids.
[QUOTE=Dangerosa]
I believe I “lost” my son (who is now nine and - as far as I know - sitting at his desk at school) at least three times.
[/QUOTE]
I’m embarrassed to say how many times I lost DS except to say I’ve called a code in every large department store in my area.
In my defense, I never lost DD even once.