Just Call Me Momma Tyson
It probably has something to do with being twelve. Or, maybe it’s just that he’s his mother’s son. Whatever, everything looks bigger, badder, teetering on catastrophe to Ben. The dangly thing hanging under the car was nearly his undoing. “Will it fall off mom? Are you sure it’s gonna be O.K.? What if we’re going down the road and it starts scraping? It’s made of metal. Couldn’t there be sparks? What if it starts a fire? Mom, it could explode. I think you better pull over now! Mom, do you think we should call dad??? OH, MOM . . .”< /p>
Why it had to be his ear is beyond me. I didn’t mean to do it. So, okay, we were in a hurry, and all, but really. It could have waited, but I have this thing about unruly hair hanging over masculine ears. We couldn’t do a complete detail before Sunday service, but at least I could do a quick trim.
One minute I’m clipping away, the next the morning stillness shatters with an horrific howl. I look down into his once trusting, brown eyes, to see a look of shock, and utter dismay. Then just like that they fill with tears.
“What, Ben, what?”
“Auuuugh! My ear, my ear!” He takes off at a dead run for the blue chair in the living room and nestles into its waiting arms, while steadfastly refusing mine.
I’m thinking, “Good grief, it can’t be that bad.”
“Nooooooooo! Auuuugh, nooooo!” Well, forevermore. “Come on, it can’t be that terrible!!” “You cut my ear!” I persuade him to pull his hand away so I can take a look. As luck would have it, it’s covered in blood. “How bad is it, Mom? Is it really bad?” “Uh, no Ben, it’s not so bad. Not really.” It just doesn’t feel like wisdom to explain that little cuts can bleed like big ones. I quickly wipe the blood from his hand, and transfer the tissue to his ear, “We’ll just put this over your ear, and that will help.” We have to finish; he can’t go with just one side trimmed. Bringing all the diplomacy of motherhood into play I persuade him to let me cut the hair around the other ear with a different pair of scissors, all the while hoping he won’t remember that once I clipped his ear with that pair, too. Tucking the success of one ear under my belt, I reach for the one that’s been wounded. “No, Mom, no. PLEASE.” “Stop it, Ben. I’m not going to hurt you (I hope). Now quit. I didn’t mean to cut your ear (as if that’s supposed to give him comfort. If I didn’t mean to once, couldn’t I not mean to twice?).” The clock is ticking, a few more minutes of this and we’re going to be late for church. Then I’m gonna’ have to explain why we’re dragging in past starting time, again. “Ben, stop it!” Finally, we take it in for the home stretch. The hair is neatly trimmed, and we both breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, what’s this? Ben, your ears are dirty, here let me . . .” “Auuuuggghh!&rd quo; On the way to church I hear Ben mumbling under his breath. “What’s that you’re saying, honey?” “I just said that I think we should call you Tyson.” OK, I deserve that. Just call me, Momma Tyson*. Copyright © 2001 Ronda Knuth *the infamous boxer who bit off part of his opponent's ear
