My grandson, a first-grader, fell during gym class and cut his chin. A gash that needed eight stitches-real sutures that required a follow-up doctor's appointment for their removal. He had instructed his mother she should not tell anyone about his accident, so he could be the one who reported the casualty to family members. "Do you look fierce?" I asked him. His "Un-huh" was awash in the well-deserved sadness reserved for such a tragedy.
    His father, my son, was no stranger to childhood mishaps, having fractured his collar bone before he was out of diapers. The healing process called for him to don a padded shoulder brace. He looked like a football player in protective gear. I wanted him to wear it forever, along with a helmet, to save him from the future incidents I feared were in store for us.
    The broken collar bone was his second brush with misfortune. Only months before, he had toddled around a doorway and fallen smack-dab into the corner of a bookshelf. Blood gushed from his forehead. My husband scooped him up and drove to the emergency room while I waited at home with our other child. There were no cell phones or even portable telephones back then; waiting by the phone meant you literally sat by the phone, waiting with bated breath. It meant the parent who had said, "I'll call as soon as I know anything," had to scurry to find a pay phone, hoping he had a coin to cover the cost of the call.
    Two years later, all bundled up in his snow suit to go to his cousins' house for an over night, my son ran back to his bedroom for something and tripped on the foot of the bed. We heard the crash and arrived at his door just in time to see him flat on his back like a turtle. No blood. No mark. We breathed sighs of relief and headed to the car. We strapped him and his sister in their little elevated car chairs (nothing like the protective cocoons today's children are ensconced in) and snapped the seat belts around them.
    A short while later, I turned to the back seat and watched my son's forehead swell and darken until it looked like he was wearing a purple-colored Easter egg. We stopped at a Tom Thumb store for a can of orange juice which I held to his head. He was so excited about spending a night with his cousins, and he looked so pathetic, we didn't have the heart to tell him he had to go back home. My sister assured us she would keep him iced and awake to make sure he didn't have a concussion. Even so, I called to check on him. After the third inquiry, she told me to stop being a worry-wart, he was busy playing.
    When I took my son to the pediatrician for a routine visit, I remember telling the doctor I feared my name might be on some sort of bad mommy list because of all my son's injuries. I had been laughing as I said it and the physician laughed with me. "Boys will be boys," he assured me.
    My grandson's stitches are gone and life is back to normal. The scar will fade. DNA being what it is, though, Grandma can't help but worry. With all the new-fangled technology and safety precautions, you'd think we could save children from getting boo-boos. If only kisses really could really make everything better.