The Summer of ER Visits

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!”  

Call Me When September Gets Here

The boys have been out of school for summer “vacation” for 10 days now, including weekends. 

This is what we have done so far:

1.  Medium gave the neighbor kid a black eye.  They accidentally bumped heads the day school got out and Medium’s best buddy got a black eye, which he found pretty impressive.  The ladies love battle scars, ya know.

2.  Small got a bloody nose at the church picnic.  He and his brothers were on the playground on the other side of the building, so by the time he ran around to where we were talking to other grow-ups, blood was gushing out of his nose and onto his teeth, where he would wipe it with his bare arm and then onto his shirt.  This is why I can’t dress them in nice things.

3.  Large broke his foot.  It was a freak playground accident where he bent his toes back and broke 2 bones on the top of his foot.  Currently he is sporting some fancy footwear that he describes as "grandma."  If ever I thought I was not his waitress/butler/short-order cook, I sure as hell am all those things now.

4.  Small put potpourri in the toilet.  I know this because I saw the potpourri floating on top, so I stuck my hand in the bowl and pulled it out.  The toilet was still clogged though, which leads me to believe that perhaps he had put other inappropriate things in the toilet as well.  We had to direct guests to use a different bathroom because apparently a non-functioning toilet does not deter little boys from using it when nature calls.  As a side note, you’d think that the potpourri would have made this whole adventure smell much better than it did.

yes, it's white.

5.  Small drew on the carpet.  The white carpet.  With blue sharpie.  I certainly don’t mean to stifle his creativity, but I prefer art projects that don’t require that I scrub vigorously with a toothbrush once they’re complete.

Ten days down; 81 more to go.

Things Mommy Doesn't Want to Learn Via Facebook

After my most recent breakdown – I know, there have been many, but please pay attention and try to keep up, people – Hubby and I agreed that we need to make Mommy a priority.  So Hubby took Large and Medium camping with the Cub Scouts last weekend while I stayed home with Small.  Small is pretty easy since he still takes two naps a day and he goes to bed at 7:00.  I booked a sitter at the last minute and was able to go to lunch and do some shopping with a girlfriend, and on Saturday evening I worked on my scrapbooks and flipped through some magazines.  Finally I settled on the couch with a glass of wine and logged in to Facebook.  It was a little bit of heaven.  For about five minutes.

And then I saw this:

Waiting in ER for a couple stitches.

I dialed Hubby’s cell phone and was greeted with a hushed, “I’m not supposed to be talking right now.  We’re in the Emergency Room.”

Yeah, I got that.

Apparently Large was playing a game and ran into a picnic table.  He had some loose baby teeth and a very fat lip, and he required four stitches. 

It seems that Hubby didn’t want to bother me on my Mommy Night.

The next morning after they returned from camping and as we were all getting ready for church, one of the other Cub Scout dads rang our doorbell.  He stopped by to reassure me that Large would be fine and mentioned to Hubby that if the same thing had happened in his family, his wife would have worried that he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the children.

You might recall that a few months ago, while I was out having drinks with girlfriends, I had to leave early because I was summoned to the Emergency Room.  (I’m just sayin’.)  But in all seriousness, it never occurred to me on either occasion that perhaps Daddy wasn’t paying close enough attention.  These things happen and it just as easily could have happened on my watch. 

A couple weeks ago my neighbor and I took our children to the park in our community.  A major design flaw in the playground, however, is that it is located right on the river.  The boys like to go down to the dock and look at the minnows.  I had Small in the swing when the older boys asked if we could go down to the dock.  I remember thinking I’m not ready to let them go down there by themselves, so I grabbed Small and we all headed down to the water.  My neighbor and I stood on the ramp that leads from the land to the dock while the older kids were on the dock.  They know that they can’t horse around down there and no one was doing anything unsafe, and yet, as we stood there chatting, we heard a splash and we both sprinted the 10 feet (at most) to the dock.  Large had lost his footing and fallen into the water, but he had pulled himself out before we even got to him.  It was one of those things that happened in a split second. 

I am thankful that he is not afraid of the water and that he didn’t panic.  His first words when he got out were “I’m sorry!”  He knows that I worry about them falling in and he was afraid I was mad.  I reassured him that I wasn’t angry; I was scared and I would be devastated if anything ever happened to him. 

My point is that I am a conscientious parent, but it is difficult, at times, to strike that healthy balance between being too protective and being too lenient.  I let Small go down the slide by himself at 14 months.  I know there are people who would disagree with this permissiveness, but I make judgement calls every moment my boys are awake.   I know, when Small is at the top of the “baby” slide, that I’ll be at the bottom to catch him.  The joy and excitement on his face when I give him that little bit of freedom to explore is priceless.  I don’t want my boys to grow up being afraid to take risks, and yet I want them to have a realistic notion of consequences. . . . it’s a delicate balance.

Of course I want to keep my children safe and the idea of harm coming to them makes my stomach churn.  (In fact, I had a hard time sleeping after Large fell in the water because my mind kept reeling through all the things that could have happened.)  From the moment they’re born we, as parents,  are preparing them to become independent of us.  I can’t wrap them in bubble wrap, though I’ve tried, for fear of scraped knees. 

Hubby has also learned a valuable lesson: Mommy does NOT want to find out her baby is in the Emergency Room via Facebook.  Do that again and I will poison your Gatorade.

Why Mommy Can't Go Out With the Girls . . .

Because it’s been a while (like at least a few weeks) since I’ve told a good ER story, here’s the latest. 

I rarely go out.  It’s kinda pathetic.  My girlfriend Laura was having a little birthday celebration at Da Club and Hubby earned extra bonus points for canceling his Friday evening plans so that I could go.  So when I came downstairs in my beer-drinkin’ outfit, (also known as not sweatpants,) Medium said, “Mommy!  Where are you going?  Goin’ to get your toes done?”  . . . because that’s the only place I ever go without them.  (Note to middle son: I usually wear flip-flops, not stockings and knee-high boots.) 

So I was at the bar when the staff starts calling for me.  Naturally I assumed my reputation had preceded me and that they wanted me to start singing Miss Dolly Parton’s 1980 country hit "9 to 5."  But alas, I had a phone call.  A phone call at the bar is never a good thing.  When Hubby started with “guess where we are?” my immediate response was “the Emergency Room.”

I’ll take “Places Where I Should Have My Own Parking Space” for $400 please, Alex.

I told him I’d be right there and set off for the ER.  The nurses in Admissions greeted me with “theeeere’s Mommy” and said they’d wondered where I was when Hubby rolled in with all three kids.  I explained that I HAD been enjoying a Mom’s Night Out, to which they replied that they’d figured as much and didn’t I know mommies aren’t allowed out of the house? 

Apparently, Medium and Large had been downstairs watching a movie and eating popcorn . . . except in a fit of cleanliness, nervous energy, and what Doug lovingly calls "a bug up my a$$," I organized the pantry and I had consolidated two bags of popcorn, one of which had tree nuts in it.  Hubby had no way of knowing this, because I, in all of my mothering wisdom, had failed to mark the bag.  Large came upstairs, swollen and having a hard time breathing, so Hubby gave him the Epi-pen, loaded all the kids in the car, and took off for the hospital. 

Poor Hubby was offended when the nurses in Admissions gave him the once-over and asked, “are you ALONE?”  Apparently a haggard daddy with puke-stained clothing, an infant in the carrier, a pajama-clad 5-year-old, and a swollen and panicky 7-year-old is cause for alarm.  Add to that the fact that Large had vomited in the car, and Hubby had changed him into the spare gym clothes he had in the back of the car.  The nurses proceeded to tell him that A) he couldn’t leave his car out front with the flashers on, and B) he couldn’t bring all the children back into the ER with him.  Since he is always rational and calm in the face of an emergency, he turned to Medium and said “here son, you stay out here and be responsible for your 10-month-old baby brother.”  And they let him bring everyone with him . . .

Later, when I was looking over the discharge sheet, I told him how impressed I was that he remembered the name and office location of our pediatrician and the names of all Large’s allergy medications.  But it turns out, all that info was already in the hospital’s computer system because we’re frequent flyers. 

We first realized that Large had an allergy about three years ago when we were at a Yankee game.  Nothing says I’m a Great Mother like having to drag your swelling four-year-old to the first aid station at Yankee Stadium.  You wanna talk about seeing a good cross-section of society!  I had to explain to Large that the woman who was sitting on the gurney, but who was still clutching her beverage for dear life and taking huge chugs of said beverage, was apparently having a "panic attack."  Luckily her tattooed, wife-beater wearing boyfriend, also still imbibing, was there to offer her the kind of comfort that is really inappropriate for a curious four-year-old to be seeing.  And, for what it’s worth, I’m not really sure what the issue was with the large, sweaty, disoriented gentleman in the corner.  We got some Benadryl, a referral to our pediatrician, and the hell outta Dodge.

Anyway, Large is fine, but I am copping to yet another epic mothering FAIL.  I feel like that mom who was facebooking while her daughter was drowning.  (Not now kids!  Mommy's got a Friend Request!)  My son has a severe tree nut allergy and experiences anaphylaxis if he ingests a nut.  This is a life-threatening condition.  So naturally I put the offending snack in a clear Ziploc bag at Large’s eye level. 

The truth is, we got complacent about his allergies.  We had never had to use the Epi-Pen before, (although I carry one with me at all times,) we see an allergist on a regular basis, and he wears a medical alert bracelet.  In fact, I can’t think of ANYthing else we have in our pantry that contains tree nuts.  But man, am I beating myself up about this one.  As I told Hubby, what kind of mother isn’t vigilant about her child’s allergies?  And top it off with the fact that I was at a bar.  

So let this be a cautionary tale. 

It is SO not worth it to clean out your pantry.

Our Kid Broke Himself.

Mommy tries.  Really, she does.

Well, Medium broke his arm.  It was just a matter of time really. 

My goal had always been to NOT have to visit the ER until at least Kindergarten.  With Large, we achieved that goal, but just barely.  He had an anaphylactic episode after eating a particularly nutritious granola bar and I had to take him to the ER about 2 weeks after he started Kindergarten.   So much for trying to ply him with protein - instead I activated a tree-nut allergy.

Medium was only about 18 months old when he came down the hallway saying “yucky!” and pointing to his mouth.  He had swallowed some prescription medication; I had accidentally left the few remaining pills on the counter after I called in the refill.  Yet another fine parenting moment.  He was fine, but as a precaution we took him to the ER to have him monitored.  The nurse told me they see many toddlers who have ingested something they shouldn’t have, but that’s little comfort when you know you’re the one whose carelessness resulted in your child’s ER visit.

(Did you know that Mt. Sinai has a Pediatric Emergency Room?  I did!)

A week ago, we met Daddy at the local mall so that we could do some holiday shopping while Large attended a birthday party in the area.  While I was dropping Large at the party, Medium was playing in the Kids’ Play Area.  According to Medium, he “fell.”  According to Daddy, he “jumped and missed.”  Knowing Medium the way I do, my money is on Daddy's version.  At any rate, he fell on his wrist and broke both bones.  He has a cast up beyond his elbow.

My question is this: how does one prevent a 5-year-old from using his cast as a weapon? Essentially he has a battering ram attached to his body at all times.  And, given that Large broke his collarbone a couple months ago, when exactly can I expect Child Protective Services to show up at my door?