>Close Call

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Bruiser has already caused me one of those heart-stopping, time-slowing, OhmydearsweetmercifuljesusSAVEHIM moments, and he’s not even a year old.

Let me back up.

A few weeks ago, I opened the world’s suckiest piece of crap known as our cheap-as-hell dishwasher and went about my business cleaning up the kitchen. Within a few seconds, there was a loud bang and a small piece of plastic skidded across the floor. Apparently, the thingamabob that keeps the dishwasher door from crashing down when you open it- broke. Ever since, the dishwasher has, well, crashed down when you open it. And it’s astoundingly heavy; almost all of us now have forgotten that the door was broken and howled in pain as a 60-pound dead weight landed on our shins.

Since this is the umpteenth thingamabob that’s broken on our “dishwasher” (and I use that term very loosely, as our dishes have never really been clean since we bought it), we decided to get a new one rather than fix it. But we’ve been putting it off, because technically, the dishwasher still works.

In the meantime, Bruiser has begun crawling. And in the back of my mind, I’ve had visions of him trying to pull up on the dishwasher door, only to have the thing crash down on his head, resulting in certain devastating injury. I have been very vigilant about locking the dishwasher every time I close it, and so has everyone else. You know where this is going, don’t you?

Last night, my 14-year-old daughter and I were in the kitchen talking while Bruiser crawled around on the floor. She put her plate in the dishwasher and closed it. I could have sworn she locked it, but two minutes later, I saw the door start to drop. Right on top of Bruiser’s head.

Yes, time stood still. Yes, a million different thoughts went through my head in that moment, the chief one being that I was on the other side of the kitchen counter and wouldn’t be able to get to him in time. Instead, I screamed at the top of my lungs and raced over as fast as I could to assess the damage.

Luckily, I found Bruiser beside the open dishwasher door and not under it, but that didn’t mean anything; it could easily have hit him hard on the way down and knocked him to one side. I scooped him up and examined him anxiously. He was silent and dazed. Oh God. Was there brain damage? A concussion? He looked at my 14-year-old blankly.

“Are you okay, Bruiser?” she asked shakily. Slowly, a big grin spread across his face. He started chortling. Against all odds, the boy was fine.

Once my heart rate returned to normal, I called my husband at work and told him what had happened.

“We are getting a dishwasher tomorrow, as soon as you get home from work,” I said grimly. “No excuses.”

He agreed.

This morning I got up too early as usual, woken by the sounds of Bruiser playing in his crib. I went in, pulled him out and held him close, thinking of how lucky I was to have him safe and sound and in my arms, and how easily and quickly accidents can happen. Like many many other moms of boys out there (and quite a few girls as well), I’m afraid that with this kid, I’m in for a lifetime of close calls.

And tonight, severe thunderstorms are predicted to hit town at the same time that Hubs and I are planning to head out to find our dishwasher. I don’t care. A dishwasher injury won’t be happening on my watch!

Not anymore, anyway.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.