On the day of the first snow of last winter (so, a little over a year ago now), V had his first real “little boy” moment. While taking advantage of the 15 seconds when no eyes were upon him, he precariously climbed on a chair and attempted to reach a magnet he desired on the fridge. At not even 2 years of age yet, he teetered, he tottered, and he fell… taking the entire chair with him. When his face hit the top edge of the chair on the way down, he managed to slice his teeth straight through his bottom lip, severing it completely off (and I am not exaggerating, I actually had his little lip in a Ziploc bag for transfer to the hospital).
By the time the ambulance arrived, Syrah was a wreck (holding her little boy who had been so damaged) and could barely contain her hysterical sobs. Little man was screaming (both in pain and also probably out of fear over his mothers reaction) and IV was furious, blaming Syrah for not watching V carefully enough (because apparently, under a crisis we all redirect our emotions in different ways.)
I was trying to remain calm, because I knew:
A.) That was what both Syrah and V needed from me.
and
B.) That little man would survive. I knew (only logically, of course) that he would be just fine.
But the blood and the emotion and the craziness did have me a little dazed. I barely paid attention at all to the firefighters directing Syrah and IV to take V to the hospital. I followed in a different car with the remnants of his lip, and as I was walking through the hospital corridor a firefighter walked by me and smiled a warm and genuine smile. I walked right past him, barely acknowledging his presence and not realizing until minutes later that he had been one of the same firefighters in our home (at the time I had just moved to Alaska and was still living with Syrah and IV) just 20 minutes prior.
V was fine, of course (Syrah and I both stayed home from work the next day, and were shocked at how “OK” he seemed to be. He wanted to eat and drink like normal, and it was all we could do to keep him from wrestling!), but it was days later before Syrah and I looked at each other and said “So… Did you see those firefighters?” Neither of us had realized it in the moment. We were both too shocked and emotionally charged to pay attention to good looking men, but those men were good looking. Really good looking. The one who had smiled at me in particular was just my type; I clearly must have been in a very serious head space to not have noticed him at all at the time!
About 9 months later I was at the grocery store and there was a group of firefighters who I kept passing in the aisles. One of them caught my eye, and I kept thinking to myself “How do I know him?” It took the whole shopping trip for it to dawn on me, and by that point the firefighters had already paid and walked out. Thus, I found myself chasing down a group of firefighters in the parking lot of a Fred Meyer before they made it to their truck. I felt compelled to thank them for their kindness that day, and to tell them that little man had healed almost perfectly and was the most amazing kid they could ever hope to meet. Plus, I was hoping to build up the courage to ask this firefighter out. Alas, by the time I caught them I was embarrassed (as it was in that moment that I realized that I had gone to the store totally scrubbed out, and without an ounce of make-up on) and nervous in my words (I think I was actually star struck, if that makes any sense at all) and after a few minutes of rambling (in which these men were very gracious with my awkward search for words), I walked away with my tail between my legs (and the feeling that Mr. Firefighter may have been thinking to himself “I remember her being hotter”). I called Syrah, and relayed to her my embarrassing encounter with “our” firefighters, and we both laughed it off.
I was shopping on my lunch break again today, when I saw the fire truck pull up (what is it about the sight of a fire truck that can just "do it" for a woman?) and “our” firefighters step out. This time I did not approach them (even though I looked much better… I really do love the way my working girl Express pants [i.e. “The Grown-Up” look] accentuate my butt!) I stayed away, both out of a fear of further embarrassment, and in a last-ditch attempt to maintain at least some of my dignity (after all, I’m the picky one here… boys chase me damnit!) Besides, he’s probably married.
Still… I’m thinking about formulating the following letter and sending it to the fire station:
"Dear Mr. Firefighter (Who’s Name I Do Not Know):
Would you like to be my baby daddy? I really am quite the catch, and I think you have the most amazing smile. Please let me know no later than November, 2010. Happy New Year!"
What do you think? It could totally work, right?!?
ADSPACE
