User post: When the stand-in-mom alarm sounds

This morning on the way to work, I passed two boys -- I'm guessing 8 and 10 -- with their bikes on the sidewalk. The younger boy was flat on the ground with his toppled bike, crying. The other was standing over him, talking into a cell phone, looking completely rattled.

I drove past them slowly, hesitating, and then realized "What am I doing? Hurt kid, ACT!" I u-turned, came back and rolled down the window, calling out to the older boy: "Is he OK? Do you guys need help?"

Older boy had this "I'm-normally-so-cool-but-have-no-idea-what-to-do" look of panic on his face. Younger injured boy looked over his shoulder at me, half laying, half sitting up, holding his wrist. Even from across the street I could see his tears. He also had an imploring look on his face that, for all his 8-year old boy bravado, looked exactly like my 3-year old when she is hurt and wants her Mommy.

"I think we need band-aids!" the older boy called out to me.

Well, that was that. The Stand-in-Mom alarm had sounded! Band-aids and alcohol wipes,check! Broken wrists or worse, I'm ready and willing to assess, make phone calls, and calm the injured. Check!

I quickly parked while reaching into the glove box for a just purchased small First Aid kit (thank you moment of foresight at Safeway!). Then I took a last look around for any other items in my car that might be useful. A portable pack of baby wet wipes caught my eye. Did I dare? With my three-year old, portable packs of wet wipes are my "never-leave-the-house-without-'em" go-to item. Blood? Chocolate? Peanut Butter? Snot? No problem! But how were these older boys going to respond to me when I arrived on the scene, a strange lady with baby wet wipes in tow?

It hit me then; it didn't matter. That's a hurt kid. I'm a Stand-In-Mom-at-the-Scene. Get to work.

"What happened?" I asked them both, sizing up the younger boy on the ground.

"His tires locked up and he went flying off," said the older boy. "I called my Dad, he's on his way right now." He said this emphatically, I noted, sending me a message. Good for this kid, I thought, letting the strange lady know that the correct grown-up is on their way. I respected that, even if he didn't fully appreciate that I was in Stand-in-Mom full-action mode at the moment, a force of nature.

"You hanging in there, bud?" I asked younger boy, getting down on the ground with him. He nodded, still crying silently. I quickly sized up his injuries. There were multiple blood rivulets pouring from a scrape on the knee, but I sensed correctly it was superficial and would wipe up pretty quickly. I was more concerned that he was holding his wrist tight, keeping his injured hand at a distance from his body. Please don't let it be broken, I thought.

Then I saw it -- a gross-out chunk of his skin, standing straight up in a pool of blood and dirty grit on his palm. Yup, that was the issue here. I ignored my own "yuck!" reaction and kicked into gear. It felt like a primal instinct. Hurt kid/help them. I'd want any Mom to do this for my kid. Be my stand-in until I can get there, calm my kid and yes, if you've got the First Aid kit and baby wipes, use them!

I tried to make eye contact with younger boy but he was staring down, looking conflicted between needing help and wanting to be brave. I patted him just once on the back, letting my hand rest for a moment as I whispered "ouch, that's a nasty one!" That's gotta sting like crazy!" He nodded emphatically, whispering through clenched teeth "it DOES."

"Well let's do something about that." While I searched through the assortment of ridiculously small bandages in this crappy kit (note to self, get a REAL kit next time), I gave him the advice I give my daughter in these moments, hoping he wouldn't feel patronized.

"Do me a favor while I'm getting ready, OK? Just take two slow, big deep breaths. It'll help." I didn't try to explain why it would, I just hoped he would do it and, to my surprise, he did, his anxiousness seeming to lower with each breath. Good, I thought, just in time for those dreaded stinging alcohol wipes, the ones that send my daughter running at the first crackle of the package.

"Let's just do this quickly and then we'll get the bandage on, OK?" I said.

"OK," he replied, and I could see him holding his breath again. That chunk of skin was upsetting us both, so I moved gently and efficiently with the wipe, expecting him to jump or yelp. Nope. His lip quivered, his eyes watered, but he was a stoic young boy. I found myself admiring him, even as I wanted to make speeches about how it is OK to cry when you're hurt. Had he been taught boys aren't supposed to cry? I kept silent, though, thinking "not your kid, not your kid, Stand-in-Mom does triage, not life lessons."

Hand bandaged sufficiently, I suggested we tackle the knee next. He shifted slightly on the ground and rolled his knee into view, surprising himself with all the dried blood. "ICK!" he said loudly, and in that moment, I saw and heard the 3-year old boy inside.

"I'm positive it looks worse than it is," I said. "Let me clean that up with some...First Aid wipes."

It seemed the right ploy. "First-aid wipes" allowed all three of us to ignore the baby in diapers on the package. Older kid even asked for a few to wipe the bicycle grease from his hands. In short order, his bloody knee was clean and the small cut, butterfly bandaged. Done.

Younger boy stood up, brushed himself off. He seemed visibly relieved to not be looking at the chunk of skin anymore. So was I. He also looked two years older now, his face one of studied nonchalance as he looked up the street for his Dad's car. I found myself doing one last Mom thing -- hesitating, weighing what was helpful and what was hovering.

Not looking at me, younger boy mumbled "I'm good now...thanks."

Check. There was my cue.

"Great, good luck boys," I said, and a minute later I was driving past them. Older boy was on the phone again, I presume calling for an ETA from Dad. Younger boy was still looking away, but at the last moment, he peered into my car, met my gaze and gave a slight wave of his bandaged hand.

Being a Mom is the best role of my life, but being a Stand-in-Mom ain't a bad gig, either.