The first of many, I’m sure

Saturday was Matthew’s first visit to the ER.  The occasion?  A face-first whack into the hard part of a bench, resulting  in a lip wound (the precise details of which I will keep to myself because they are just too horrifying to share).

If you’ve ever seen a two-year-old get facial stitches, you’ve probably seen the elaborate restraint system that they use.  It looks like something from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Not easy for a mom to see.  But he was a trouper  — very composed and calm while a strange doc hovered over him doing strange things with strange instruments.   The doctor and nurse were highly impressed with my brave little soldier.  He got an orange popsicle and a lavish amount of praise.

And me? Well, I’m hanging in there.  I felt horribly woozy at the initial sight of the wound (I’m the type who faints easily), but, as I hustled my bleeding boy and his little brother to the car, I realized that I needed to pull it together.  Fainting was not an option.  It just wasn’t.

And I’ve now been broken in.  That’s a good thing … because, see, I have two boys.  What are the odds I’ll be in the ER again someday?

Pretty darn good, I’m afraid.

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