The Big Red Button Phase....

Today marks the official end to the summer holidays. It’s been fun but I welcome the return of routines and the military boot camp-feel the school mornings have. I suppose if I’m honest I missed all the clapping in an authoritive manner, the barking of orders and the taking away of privileges from those who did not comply.
We didn’t go away this year again. The thought of taking four small children on an airplane fills me with dread. The thought of having to spend two weeks cooped up in a compact hotel room with them fills me with despair.
No matter where we would go they would be bored within two hours, guaranteed. If I booked us a week on the moon they would complain about the cold, that they were bored looking at outer space, that once you’ve seen one star you’ve seen them all and where was the intergalactic drive-through McDonalds?
I would also be at pains to take an airplane anywhere until our middle child Caolan grows out of the Father Dougal phase he’s been going through this past six years. This phase means he cannot physically help himself and has to touch dangerous stuff when told not to. We call it the ‘big red button’ fascination.
I would imagine that any land, sea or air vehicle that child is found on would surely come to grief because he has pressed the big red button onboard, the one with the sign which clearly states ‘Self Destruct Button – Do Not Touch’ on it.
We visited a country house and gardens last week as part of the O’Neill Staycation 2011. It was a glorious day, the gardens were beautiful and we were milling around enjoying ourselves. One walled garden was cordoned off and there was a large sign on a closed iron gate saying ‘Do Not Enter’ and smaller lettering warning folk that there was some manner of pesticide spraying going on to kill bugs and beasties and that the chemicals used could irritate skin and eyes.
I could see Caolan’s radar bing into action and I told the child in no uncertain terms that he was absolutely forbidden to enter that garden. He was told that ‘Do Not Enter’ means exactly that. No ifs or buts. That there was poisonous substances there that would positively burn his skin off and possibly his eyes out of his head. He might never see again and would have to live his live out the rest of his life void of flesh on his bones. This warning served to entice him further. He seemed drawn to that ‘Do Not Touch’ sign like a moth to a flame.
I’m not sure what way the child’s brain computed this information but it was probably something along the lines of…’See over there, there’s a world of dangerous and exciting things hiding behind that cordon just waiting to be discovered. Wouldn’t it be great to tell your mates you ate/stuck up your nose/stuffed into your ears one of those poison plants and it turned your tongue/nose/ears green? That chemical stuff could turn your hand into a skeleton hand. Imagine your friend's faces. They’d be all like, Wow!’
We were sitting on one of the picnic benches when he arrived over, the skin on his hands a flamey red colour. He rubbed his eye and the skin on his face got enflamed. He was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt but we had to spend half an hour with his hands and face under a gushing outdoor tap to get his skin back to normal. There was no scientific proof that this would cure his sore skin but I figured a good dunking would probably do him the world of good.
I cannot impress upon you, readers, how many times I have been to the doctor with this child in the aftermath of one of his ‘big red button’ events. His exploits are the stuff of legends in our medical surgery.
There was the time I gave him an art set and told him not to consume any of the small fluffy pieces. Two weeks later after a nosebleed, and the discovery of a lump I made a frantic dash to the doctors telling him I thought my child had a tumour in his nose. The doctor fished a small fluffy art ball from my son’s nose with a pair of tweezers. Caolan told me he sniffed it up to see what would happen.
The first time I took the child to the beach as a baby, just walking, he ran straight into the water, diving head first into the oncoming waves. He has had kitchen table jumping injuries and a scar above his eye from when he was swinging Tarzan-like on a kitchen cabinet door and it fell completely off onto his head.
The child literally jumps first and thinks later, usually while rolling around the floor in agony.
I doubt he’ll ever be any different. I have just resigned myself to the fact that I am the mother of a kamikaze kid.