Impulse Control

Every family has one, and in our family, it was me. Impulse control was not my very best thing growing up. I was the one stepping in the mud puddle that filled up my shoes, touching the light socket, and once, famously, feeding the dachshund a big piece of taffy that sealed his mouth shut and sent him to the vet.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

My parents despaired. I had a pristine, well behaved older sister who never even got her clothes dirty. It would never occur to her to overflow the bathtub or put beans in her ears. This made my exploits seem even more outrageous by comparison. As an adult I still struggle with this, firing off outraged emails I regret moments later, or making a joke that seemed funny in my head, but rings highly inappropriate as it leaves my mouth. It's a work in progress.

My oldest son is well behaved. He doesn't talk back, has a kind demeanor, and is very truthful. The thing is, though, is that poor impulse control seems to be genetic.

We have gone to the hospital for swallowed pennies, party favors in noses and falls off detergent bottles. (It was a game that ended badly.) We have discovered the hard way that some things do not flush, no matter how hard you try. Last September he jumped out of a playground tower, breaking both feet, in spite of being keenly aware of a bleeding disorder and thin bones.

"But, why?" everyone asked.

Everyone but me.

Two nights ago my sweet, creative son decided to practice using his epinephrine pen that he has for allergy emergencies. When he came into my room, bleeding and hyperventilating, gasping, "EPPY PEN, EPPY PEN!!" I thought he NEEDED the eppy pen. No. His heart rate was through the roof and he looked like he might pass out.

On the way to the hospital, in the ambulance, I had a hard time not laughing. Sage was fine and I felt giddy with relief and the thought of telling the story at family dinners for years to come.

"Why aren't you mad?' He asks.

"Because you make sense to me," I say. I know that the humiliation of the neighbors seeing the ambulance and the pain of the needle that went through his thumb is a powerful lesson, just like the casts he wore on his feet. I want him to remember that instead of ranting and yelling from me.

He and I sit in the waiting room for about an hour, and his heart rate is fine, blood pressure, too. The nurse is mean, and there are a lot of sick and broken people waiting, so we walk home down city sidewalks in a companionable silence that only happens sometimes, rarely, with someone you truly, truly understand.