December 20, 2012 by vlittle528
What do hot firemen, even hotter male nurses, a hiding child, blood, and a crazy worry that my house is dirty and child services will be called have in common? Well, they all were a part of my Monday night.
I had settled down to write a post and had just poured a drink and had maybe two sips out of it. My kids were playing in my room, finishing up their last show before bed. All of a sudden I heard a thump and then my son crying “oh no oh no oh no, I’m so sorry, oh no oh no” an then my daughter started wailing. My husband went in and picked her up and walked her out to me. He started to rub her head to make it feel better and came back with a hand full of blood. Things got hectic and dramatic and ultimately led to me calling 911- because I couldn’t even imagine trying to drive her at that point. I couldn’t find my cordless (of course) so I felt helpless and trapped in my bedroom with my husband yelling at me to get them here fast and she is bleeding through towels. My son finally brings me the cordless and I get dressed to head to the hospital. Though I forgot my bra. Why do we always forget the bra?
There was plenty of eye candy in the house in what seemed like many LOOOONG minutes, though my daughter didn’t care about any of that. Nope, my sweet daughter pressed the back of her cut open head against my husband so they couldn’t look at her. Many mundane and pretty self-explanatory details later (and after my son both hid under the table and then decided to talk the ears off of three of the firemen) we went to the hospital.
Here is the thing. I am okay with other people’s blood. Gory shows on t.v. don’t bother me much. But when my daughter sits on my lap with her gaping, bloody, smelly wound and the Dr. starts talking about how fatty tissue is oozing from the area so they can’t do stitches, I can’t take it. My sister caught my daughter as the Dr. caught me and once again I was laying staring on the ceiling in a teeny little hospital gurney as the patient (once again my daughter) looked at me like she was disappointed in me and was getting comforted by someone else. Sister’s are awesome like that.
My sweet daughter isn’t a fool, though. The doctor came back in to give her the ice pop and she asked where her toy was. He seemed a bit surprised. I guess not too many kids come back exactly one year and one day later to get some more stitches and remember they should get a toy.
When I finally got home, I looked at the house as the emergency personnel must have seen it. The open bottle of whiskey on the counter, the trash that had yet to be taken out, the dirty clothes on the floor waiting to be cleaned. And the worst was my open lockbox that holds my medications. I am sure they were thinking “really? what good is it to have a lockbox if you don’t actually LOCK it?” Now that my daughter was safe, my new stress became the fact that people I will hopefully never see again saw my house in such a mess. This is the mom’s equivalent of wearing clean underwear each time you leave the house.
My daughter is fine, all is well and my house is clean. And the offending entertainment stand that had the audacity to cut my daughter’s head after a game of flying airplane went bad is now in the trash. If only the firemen and police could see my house now!