Lest you think I’ve been building my portfolio for the Mom
of the Year contest, here’s what’s REALLY been happening in the BoyMommy
household.
I had hoped that when Large broke his foot during the first
week of summer “vacation” that that would be our only trip to Patient
First.
You know where this is headed, right?
We were heading to the car after a lovely afternoon at the
movies and an early dinner. (Truth be
told, we were heading home because my boys were acting like spider monkeys who
have been trapped in a cardboard box, so I told them I had had enough and we
were going home and going straight to bed.
At 6:30.) Small was running down
the sidewalk at a local shopping center and apparently got a little
overzealous. As soon as I said, “slow
down, Chief!” he fell head first into the leg of a metal bench.
So much for early bed time and an early glass of wine.
I am generally pretty calm in situations that require
emergency services, but as any mom will tell you, head injuries, no matter how
minor, are often accompanied by a lot of blood.
Picture Carrie. Spending the
night on Elm Street. With the guy from
the Saw movies.
Small sat up with a stunned look on his face, and within seconds he began to cry. His head was
bleeding profusely, so I picked him up and instructed Medium and Large to run
ahead; there was a little mom & pop restaurant near where we had parked, so
I told them to get ice and napkins. All
the while they were frantically asking me for reassurance that Small would be
okay.
Any other time they’re beating the crap out of each other,
banging each others’ heads into the wall, and daring each other to see how far
they can jump from the top bunk bed, but I guess the sight of blood makes them
feel all lovey-dovey.
I hauled @ss over to the Patient First, praying that no one
would recognize the Swagger Wagon and judge my erraticer than usual driving. The staff took us back to the room
immediately, and they began cleaning him up.
At this point he had blood all down his face, in his hair, and on his
clothes. He was a trooper, and it pained
me to watch him flex his feet and toes back and forth, back and forth, in order
to calm himself in lieu of crying.
You can always tell how serious the injury is by judging the reaction
you get from the nurses, so I knew that Small’s wound was deeper than I had
thought originally. The doctor came in
to assess it . . . and promptly sent us to the Emergency Room at the hospital.
The hospital staff was great (shout out to Inova Loudoun,
woot-woot!) but I was a little worried when the representative from “Family
Life" came to chat.
Always calm when faced with tension, I blurted “Oh my
god! You’re here to make sure I’m not an
unfit mother!” She reassured me that she
was only there to make sure Small was comfortable and that I didn't have any
questions, but then she asked if we’d been to the ER before.
Again with the verbal vomit: “Yes! A year ago when he split
his lip open and he had to have stitches and we had to have the plastic surgeon
and he was so brave!”
“These things happen,” she chuckled. “He’s three years old.”
Whew.
Ten stitches later, he’s healing nicely, and I’m trying to
repeat her mantra that “these things happen,” especially when you have boys. Just for safe measure, when Small stands on the coffee
table pretending to be a caped crusader, I remind him that “if we go back to
the ER again, they’re not gonna let you come home with me!”
