triggering mom’s panic button

My sons like to try and punch my panic button. They succeed more often than I care to admit. Like the time I was enjoying a quiet evening in our basement family room. At the time we only had a family of sons.
I was relaxing in front of the Franklin fireplace when my then teenage stepson came down the open basement steps holding a bottle of cleaning detergent. “Look, Mom,” he said and put the mouth of the bottle up to his mouth. He tipped his head back and proceeded to take a swig.
My mother panic button went off big time. “No!! Don’t do that.”
He laughed, opened hi hand which was wrapped around the neck of the bottle. The cap was still tightly screwed onto the bottle.
“Good one,” I laughed.
A few minutes later my junior high stepson came down the steps holding the same bottle, the same way, grinned and said the same thing, “Hey Mom, look.”
I looked to make sure the cap was still intact, smiled and went back to reading my book.
Then my second grader came down the stairs with the same bottle, grinning just as big as his brothers. “Hey, mom, look.” He tipped his head back. I started to give him a quick glance and grin. I stopped and stared, the cap was off the bottle. “Did you really drink that stuff?”
He spat, “Yuck.”
My panic button went off at the ambulance level.
Fortunately at the time we only lived a mile from a medical clinic which was open for the evening.
Within minutes, I was at the clinic and explaining the situation to the nurse.
“How much did he drink?” she asked. I had not bothered to find out.
I turned to him, “How much?”
He had poured the diluted fluid into the tiny cap and tasted it. He only needed to drink some milk. “Kids will be kids,” we agreed and went home.
After lectures all around about safety and setting good examples my panic button switched off. I went to sleep after checking on him one more time.
Score two points for the kids in the game of punching mom’s panic button.
Then, there was the hot day I drove with the windows down. One of my sons rode alone in the back seat of our station wagon. After a particularly busy spell of driving, I thought he seemed awfully quiet. I glanced back to check on him. The seat belt was empty.
My panic button soared to get ready to scream, but first I reach behind my seat to see if he had slid down to the floor behind me. He wasn’t there.
My panic button pulled up every story I had ever heard of children falling out of cars. My foot hit the brake. I called his name sharply.
His head popped up from the storage area behind the back seat. “Yes?”
The next couple of times we were alone in the car together, he tried to disappear again. No panic. Only a command, “get back in the seat belt, buster.” He put it on – and spent the rest of the drive figuring out other ways to trigger my panic button.