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.