There was the time when Brandon became terrified of his mother. His own warm, cuddly mommy who kissed his hurts to make them well and held him when he felt bad. His soft, funny mama who tickled him and made him laugh, played with him, and let him watch a Big Machines video almost every afternoon.
Brandon’s mom often told him not to climb on the wood pile behind the garage. He knew the wood could fall and hurt him. But up there he would be able to see far across the neighborhood. He’d be able to see the big dog two yards away and the garbage truck when it came through the street in front of his neighbor’s yard.
He climbed in the slowest, most careful way. The wood moved a little, but he made his way to the top. As he tried to turn around so he could see from the top, one log slid. Brandon slid, too. Right down the wood pile. He reached out to save himself and felt a stinging in his hand.
The tears came in buckets. Mommy came to the rescue. This hurt couldn’t be kissed well. Mommy told Brandon to stay put in a kitchen chair while she went for some supplies. She returned holding a big needle. Brandon’s eyes grew huge.
“Hold still,” Mommy said.
“No, Mommy, no.” Brandon tried to jump off the chair, but his mom caught him by the shirt.
Brandon shook his head back and forth. His sobs turned to screams. What was his mother going to do with that needle?
She held the hand open gently but firmly and pried the big splinter out of the meaty part of Brandon’s palm. Then she wiped the cut with hydrogen peroxide and let go. All of a sudden, the hand no longer hurt. Brandon grew quiet and glanced up at his mother. She smiled.