Scratch Resistant
By Tammy Ruggles"Slow down, Joey! You're going to get hurt!"
He didn't hear me, of course. What four-year-old does when he has a towel fastened around his neck pretending to be Batman?
I was busy cooking lunch in our on-campus family housing unit. Baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and sweet corn, one of the family's favorites, especially Joey's.
The day was like any other Saturday. I finally had time off to rest and spend time with my little boy. After lunch we usually went to feed the ducks at the lake, or a bike ride, or a walk down to the campus art museum and science display. He was fascinated with the paintings, statues, rocks, and bugs.
"I'm Batman, Mommy!" he cried happily as he and his friend Chris ran past me and flew outside to play.
"I know you are!" I yelled back as I stirred the corn. "Just slow down!"
We had just seen Batman the weekend before. This was Joey's very first feature-length movie in a theater. Ever since then, it was a Batman world for him. He liked the comics, the toys, the trading cards, anything Batman.
"If you save all of this stuff," I told him, "you could make a lot of money off of it one day."
"Really?" he asked as he looked up at me with his blue-gray eyes and innocent face. "Will I be rich?"
"I don't know about rich, but collectors pay a pretty penny for stuff like this."
I began to think about how I myself had been a Batman fan when I was little. It was the first thing I watched when I got home from school. I remember playing just like that when I was his age, except that my cape was a sheet of yellow tarp-like plastic that looked more like Robin's cape than Batman's.
The chicken, corn, and potatoes were done, so I turned the stove off and walked toward the door to call for Joey to come and eat, but they were already on their way. Two colorful streaks headed for the front door before I could even open my mouth.
Chris was in the lead. He pushed open my front door and let it swing back, and Joey, right behind him, put his arms out to catch it. But instead of catching it, his momentum propelled him through the glass.
"Oh my God".
Glass exploded as he crashed through the doorway and landed facedown. It looked like a trick a stuntman might do on the set of an action picture.
A gasp escaped me as I ran toward him. Chris was standing still in the kitchen, looking bewildered. Jags of glass larger than human hands protruded from the doorframe.
Visions of my son being cut to ribbons flooded my mind, and a sob caught in my throat.
"Oh no," I whispered.
He was on his hands and knees, already trying to stand.
I took him under the arms to help him up. What would I see when I turned him around? How much blood? How many stitches? There would be terrible scars.
Call an ambulance.
My heart sank. I should have stopped him. I told him to stop, I should have made him. I should not have felt so guilty, I was supposed to protect him.
I was crouched on one knee. With trembling hands I braced myself and turned him around, and all I saw was his pale face and frightened eyes.
"Honey?" I asked as I looked him over, my hands exploring for bumps, bruises, anything.
Nothing. No blood. No scratches. No pieces of glass.
He blinked at me like a little owl as joy and amazement filled my insides.
"Are you okay?"
I was crying. I couldn't help it. He looked down at the shards of glass he had landed on.
"I'm okay," he said in a small voice.
He sounded as bewildered as Chris looked. I hugged him so tightly then. I didn't want to let go.
"Thank you, God," I whispered. "Thank you for protecting him."
I looked past his shoulder and at the door, at the dangerous angles of glass that should have cut my son, but somehow didn't. Chris' mother, Cindy, had heard the commotion and came running from the apartment building next door. She squeezed my shoulder.
"You're shaking. It's okay. He's okay."
"I know," I sobbed.
"Are you going to be all right?"
"Oh, yes," I nodded as I sniffed and picked my son up, squeezing him hard. He squeezed me back, and patted my shoulder.
"It's okay, Mommy. I didn't even get hurt."
Chris and Cindy went home, and I swept up the glass, removed the dagger-like pieces of glass from the front door, then called the family housing maintenance man to come and replace the window. I was still shaken by the time we sat down to eat, but a happy shaken.
"You know why I didn't get cut?" Joey asked as he pushed corn onto his spoon with his fingers.
I figured he would say something about Batman or super powers, or make a muscle for me, but what he said was, "It's all those prayers you say for me when I go to bed at night."
My eyes filled with tears again, but happy ones this time. I stroked his blond hair. The hair that, by all rights, should have been streaked with blood. We should have been at the emergency room getting stitches.
"You're right, baby. God watched over you. Over both of us. Maybe he sent a guardian angel, I don't know. But I do know His hand were on you today."
We finished our meal, and then went on with our usual Saturday routine. First the art museum, the science displays, then a bike ride, then a walk up to the lake to feed the ducks.
This Saturday I had a bigger reason to enjoy our day out. My thoughts turned to God. "Thank you, Lord," I breathed for about the hundredth time that day.
"Race ya to the lake, Mommy!" He was still wearing his Batman cape.
"Okay, Batman!" I yelled, and we took off running together.