The Butter, The Baby, The Recliner and 911

My oldest son was born when I was 24 years old. My second son was born 16 months later. It was tough, 2 young boys, working full time at a very grueling job ( production manager for a weekly publication ) and a husband in the military working the swing shift, 4 pm to midnight.

I remember being utterly exhausted one weekday evening. I picked up the boys from the daycare, drove home and threw together some sort of a dinner. After rocking baby Danny for a good little while, he was finally asleep and I was sneaking down the hall with him in my arms, praying that he would stay asleep after I deposited him into his crib.

Toddler, Nick, was playing in the living room. Just as I placed Danny into the crib, I heard Nick make a fussy little cry. It wasn't in his normal vocal range, so I filed my own request for a bathroom break on my mental back burner and headed back into the living room.

My initial reaction to the scene in the living room was amusement. Nick had somehow popped the footrest out on the recliner and wedged himself down between the safety bar and foot rest. I remember thinking, if I wasn't so exhausted, I would go look for the camera.

Nick was really a hard kid to pin down ( we would later discovery that he had ADHD and NEVER stopped moving) so I found it almost a relief to see him pinned down. This feeling quickly vanished.

Nick was really kicking up a fuss by the time I got to him and was reaching up to me. I bend down to scoop him up, expecting him to pop loose after a tug. I tugged. He didn't pop loose. I tugged harder. He cried - loudly.

Now I am at the beginning edge of frantic. I lift up on the foot rest, thinking that might create some more room to pull him free. Instead, this only squeezed him harder and he let out a yelp. I don't know if it was just my mommy-panic playing tricks on me, but it looked like his eyes actually bulged when I lifted the foot rest. It reminded me of the way a frog looks when you squeeze him too hard (please don't ask me how I know that).

I am no longer on the edge of frantic. I have taken a nose dive off the precipice into full blown panic. I try to gather my wits. What would Bob (husband) do? That thought sent me into a mental meltdown and I filed away another mental note to be really, really pissed off at him for NEVER BEING AVAILABLE at a time of need. I took a breath and decided to take off Nick's clothes. Maybe, I thought, I could wiggle him free if his clothing wasn't in the way. It was difficult to unsnap his PJ's and wiggle them off while he was screaming and beseeching me to free him, but I managed. Of course by now, baby Danny was awake from the commotion and screaming from the nursery.

I ran to the nursery scooped up the baby and deposited him on a blanket in the living room. Nick was still screaming. Stripping him down still did nothing to free him. Maybe his diaper, too, I thought. So off it came. Still nothing, and with his clothing removed I could really tell how tightly he was wedged in the darn recliner. Why in the heck was that thing called a safety bar??

Both babies were really wailing. I ran to the shed and fetched a hammer. I beat on the safety bar, thinking I could knock it loose. Every thud of the hammer caused Nick to wail. I dropped the hammer and cried for just a moment. Then an idea sparked.

I ran to the kitchen and flung open the fridge door, hard. A jar of blackberry jam flew out of the door and smashed to the floor. I ignored it and snatched up the gigantic tub of Country Crock margarine. I rounded the corner to find two babies, red faced, howling, and an arc of baby pee coming from my little naked baby stuck in the chair.

Working quickly, I buttered my child from chin to ankle, front and back. I tugged and pulled. Nothing. I lifted on the footrest one last time and Nick let such a wail, that I stopped immediately and grabbed the phone. I did what every parent fears to do. I called 911. Calling 911 means I have failed. It means I can't save my child. It means I am out of options.

Screaming into the phone, I explained who I was, where I was and what I needed. The operator grew silent for a moment and then she said, "you need assistance getting your baby out of what?" "THE RECLINER!" "THE DARN CHAIR!" "HURRY!"

After I convinced the operator that I was not prank calling, and I knew help was on the way, I called Bob. I was so hysterical, he could not understand me. Finally, when he got it, he LAUGHED. If he had been home, I would have strangled him. He did, however, very calmly, almost jovially offer up a solution. "Have you tried pushing down on the footrest?" he said, most non-chalantly.

I sprinted to the recliner and pushed down on the footrest. Space magically appeared. Nick instantly quit crying, climbed out of the space and leaped to the sofa, asking for a Barney video in baby speak. I was numb. So many emotions at once, I was on overload and shut down.

The fire department arrived at about that time. They knocked. I said come in. They opened the door and there I stood, or some variation thereof. My toddler was safe on the sofa. He was buck naked, covered in Country Crock. The recliner was still open. The hammer was sitting on it. There was pee on the carpet. My newborn was still howling.

The fireman looked disappointed. He said, "Darn, we were looking forward to this one". I am not making this up, that is what he actually said.

After his comment, he looked up at me and his amusement wore off quickly. He left just as fast.

We got rid of that recliner the next day.