“Experiencing any nausea or dizziness?”
“Who? Me or the baby?”
This was my conversation with the nurse at the urgent care center late last night as I held a paper towel to my sweet Baby Dean’s forehead in attempts to stop the gushing blood.
I guess it’s a rite of passage for all parents. In fact, I’m really amazed we’ve avoided any kind of stitches or broken bones thus far, what with all the rough housing, racing, chasing, bed jumping, stairs, and coffee tables around here.
Oh, the coffee table. It was that darn coffee table! Paul has plans to dismantle the Ikea sharp-edged table of terror today. Who needs a coffee table anyhow? We don’t even drink coffee!
You see, last night, after baths, the kids were running around, chasing each other, screaming and throwing pillows. Nothing new. But a pillow hit Dean from behind and he fell face forward into that blasted coffee table and split his forehead wide open.
May you never see that much blood spilling out of your child.
Five minutes later we were pulling up to the urgent care center. The other kids were gently sobbing in the backseat, riddled with guilt, whispering fervent prayers.
“Should we try to clean him up with some wet wipes or something before you take him in?” asked Paul.
“Are you kidding? A baby this bloody goes right to the front of the line,” I said and got out of the car with Dean.
I was right. The other mommies in the waiting room took one look at his blood soaked Hannah Anderson pajamas and the dried rivers of blood on his peaches ‘n cream cheeks and said, “Let them go first.”
Soon enough, he was cleaned up, the wound irrigated and the doctor came in. His cut was a clean split and it qualified for Derma-Bond in leui of stitches. (Derma-Bond basically glues the cut closed instead of sewing it closed.) By that time Dean was his happy self, talking to the nurse, pulling out all his darling tricks like, “You’re awesome.” and “I’m two!” He would make a full recovery. Whew!
Believe it or not, there is a silver lining in all this. Yesterday morning, before the accident, the bigger kids were all moaning and whining about how, “Dean destroys everything! He’s always into my stuff! He wrecks all my toys!” They were sick and tired of him taking their things and drawing on their papers.
“He’s two!” I retorted. “Do you know what you were like when you were two?” But nothing I could say could placate them. They were fed up with all of his antics that never seem to land him in trouble with his parents.
But a few hours of pacing their rooms last night, consumed by guilt, not knowing whether Dean would survive…well, it was enough to fix their wagons. This morning, they tip toed in, bearing presents to the still-sleeping Dean, carefully observing the surgical strips on his otherwise smooth forehead. He was alive!
“Let’s make him a special breakfast!” they cried. “He can watch whatever shows he wants today. We’ll even watch Dora! Whatever he wants! Nothing’s too good! Dean is king for the day!!”
Dean did get a special breakfast. He is watching his favorite show, playing with their favorite toys, and I haven’t heard one harsh word all morning…
It’s still early.