THERE have been a few moments in my life that I have truly hated. They’ve all occurred for me as a parent and they’ve all been the same moment, but on different days involving different children. Last Friday was the sixth time it had happened to me. This time  was no less awful than the rest. In fact, it was far worse.

All these moments involve one of my dear, sweet  children falling or hitting their head against a wall, the floor or a table. It’s never very hard. But this contact, however trivial it seems, has resulted in awfully loud screams and then a dreadful silence. Each time, my little baby has passed out, with its eyes rolling back in its head.

The first time it happened was when my eldest daughter jumped off the couch and hit her head against a coffee table. A pot plant fell off the table and broke. She screamed. I screamed, rushed over, picked her up and then she collapsed in my arms.

I lost it.

My husband charmingly compares my response to that of a headless chicken and takes great pleasure in describing how, on one of these occasions, desperate for his help, I presented my son to his father for his amateur examination only to run off with the boy before he could lay a hand on him.

The doctors are kind. They take time to examine perfect skulls. They say not to worry. Just a little too much adrenaline rushing to the head.

Luckily, I’m credulous and easily humoured.

Then last week,  actress Natasha Richardson died from what appeared to be a minor head injury. And that Friday, I had
my single worst parenting experience. Ever.

Not only did it involve a head banging, it also involved copious amounts of blood. My son fell off his bed, knocked his head against a sharp-edged toy and passed out. Initially, I was too freaked out by the scream followed by the silence that I didn’t notice the blood. But once I saw the blood, I was a goner.

I was alone at home with three children. I had a crisis on my hands. And I wasn’t coping.

I ran around. I phoned my husband, but hung up before telling him what was wrong.
I packed the kids in the car and dashed to the doctor.

Just a bit of adrenaline to the head,  said the doctor. I wasn’t sure if he meant Ben or me.

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