Most of you know me from growing up here in Greensboro, but some of you don’t.
Let me introduce myself. I’m Heather Harris, a mom of two boys, 16 and almost 4; a wife of a local electrician/contractor of 19 years; and the advertising sales director here at Smith Communications.
You may be thinking, “Why have I decided to take a jab at writing a weekly column?”
I promise it’s not out of a lack of things to do. In fact, I couldn’t be busier in this whirlwind I call life.
I’m hoping to achieve a few things by doing this, however. One, my sanity, because let’s face it, motherhood is hard, like real hard. Second, there are things that occur in my life that you just can’t make up. And third, to connect with readers and customers on a deeper, more personal level.
So here goes!
Being a working mom is hard — I mean, even being a mom is hard — but juggling long hours and toddlers is not for the faint of heart. In fact, working with said feral toddlers is even harder! Thankfully, I work at a company that allows me to keep my job and bring my 3-year-old along when I have to.
I’m almost positive anyone who knows me knows Memphis. He doesn’t need his own introduction. The boy, the myth, the legend — full of energy straight from the sun, the wild child who was treated for rabies by the age of 2 — yes, that guy.
We shall start there. In June of 2023, one summer evening, I was out getting summer clothes for the beach out of the storage shed, and my then almost 2-year-old was walking around the yard and yelled, “Bite, bite!” about 10 feet away.
I ran quickly as I figured he was standing in ants, only to discover it was a live brown bat. At first, I didn’t panic, but I grabbed him up, and we went inside. My husband was at church, and I sent him a text letting him know. This is where the panic sets in.
My husband frantically starts calling me and telling me to call the hospital and pack a bag. We had to go. Apparently, I missed the memo on how dangerous and gross (as in rabies gross) bats are. So, we called the pediatrician and off to Piedmont in Athens we went.
No one could believe what I was saying about a bat biting the bottom of my baby’s foot. He was checked, and we connected with poison control, which handles these types of things. I won’t get into the details and how bad the authorities drug their feet, but let’s say you have seven days to treat rabies.
We got to day six — three hours in before I finally had had enough and demanded something be done, especially since he spiked a fever around day 5.
Finally, we were told they still didn’t have the results from the bat, but that we did need to start the treatment. We then took him into a local hospital where three grown men and his daddy held him down to get the shots in his foot. It was horrible and started a case of white coat syndrome.
It was pitiful to see him so confused and in pain. Then the very next day — as life would have it, but thankfully — we got the negative results and were able to stop the rest of the treatment.
Who could have thought that by two, he would have started rabies treatment? And this is where it all started: the mayhem, the madness, the most feral motherhood stories!
As you all know, it really starts with that secondborn child, and boy, did it! So when I say he’s a feral toddler, I say that with the most sincerity. He is and has always been the wild one.
Until next week.
XO