Last week I did something I haven't attempted in over a decade:
I volunteered to donate blood.
Being the scaredy-cat that I am when it comes to needles, I myself was rather shocked to see my hand suddenly asserting a mind of its own to sign my name on the Red Cross clipboard that slowly made its way around church a few Sundays back.
For some unexplained reason I felt compelled to do it, and considering the events that would transpire,
it's a good thing I was feeling dedicated.
Looking back on it all- if I were to do it again- I think I would probably leave my children with a neighbor or friend, or even wait for a night my husband was off from work to tackle this particular good deed.
While I'm thinking, I would also wait until I owned a fancy phone with dozens of games and other child-attracting entertainment
rather than set them up in the church's nursery room with a larger-than-life farm puzzle
and the promise of 'a whole piece of gum' as a reward for staying put.
Ah, well, we can't rewrite the past. We can only learn from it.
Learn that no matter how minty, sticks of gum do not carry enough weight
to keep your babes happy down the hall.
Learn that two, even three warnings will not be enough, and little girls that rarely miss their mothers will suddenly develop alarming feelings of loneliness, and won't hesitate to send an emissary in the form of a younger brother to relay the woeful message.
And while you may be forced to include your children in an experience that could very well scar them while they sit in that chair beside your bed where you've softly cooed to them to stay put while volcanic flames danced in your eyes, these particular children may also surprise you, and while a sweet Red Cross worker is patiently pumping your blood into a plastic bag their young voices may fill the air with exclamations of,
"Wow! Mom, that is super cool! I want to be a doctor too!"
You could also learn that the rhythmic reminders escaping your lips to sit down and hold Mommy's hand are actually more comforting to yourself than the sweet, tear-stained faces of those you're addressing.
And when passersby raise their eyebrows and laughingly remark on your fortitude at bringing the 'whole brood' with you to such an experience, you will learn that though you may want to counter that this particular scene had no part in your original plan, you can be collected enough to simply smile and reply that you're only half as brave without them.
You may also be surprised to witness a natural nursemaid in the little girl at your side, coaxing you to 'take it easy' when the removal of the needle makes you woozy, and hurls the voices in the room to the end of a very long tunnel.
You'll be glad to feel her sweet hand stroking your free arm and asking if you're sure you wouldn't like another can of juice- apple, of course, since it's her favorite, and she'd be happy to help you finish whatever you can't get down.
And finally, you may be thrilled to learn, that while the beginning of this experience loomed ominous and surely would be something you'd regret for years to come, what actually transpired was this:
You became the bravest woman ever in the eyes of your children.
The red figure-eight bandage on your arm was an honored battle scar, and something to be inspected with ooh's and ahh's of admiration and jealousy.
In the course of ten minutes you became a hero,
and they need never know the truth-
that you pretended you were in Paris when the nurse readied the needle
and for a few moments you didn't care who needed the blood you were about to share.
Looking back with a critical eye, you learn that these little ducklings that frequently make life so hard,
and wear your emotions so dangerously thin,
make you a better person than you could ever be without them.
Not a bad trade for a needle prick and a unit of blood.
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