Raising a boy takes some getting used to... Part III (Sigh)

I know that I have blogged about my son's desire to climb on everything. I suppose that it's a miracle we haven't had to make an ER trip before last Thursday.

Boyo was determined to get in the bath by himself, which means he went running into the bathroom, slipped, and cracked his head on the side of the tub.

My husband, who was on bath duty, immediately began to swear, followed by a "He's BLEEDING!"

I took one look, threw a towel around him, and we headed to the ER.

We waited for 1 hour before they would see him. I guess a toddler dripping blood and screaming didn't phase them the way it freaked me out.

The nurse took one look at it and went, "Yup, we're going to have to stitch that up. Does he wear bandaids?"

I couldn't answer because I was too busy laughing at the thought of my son wearing a bandaid. Yeah, right.

So they put the numbing stuff on him, wrapped his head in gauze, and then sent us back out to the waiting room to wait for another hour.

At this point, Boyo was feeling better. He likes having Momma and Daddy to himself, after all. How does he show us that he's happy? He begins shrieking with laughter and racing around the ER waiting room. Oh, Lord. The people who were really suffering were glaring at me. I don't know what they expected me to do.

Finally, finally, finally, they take us back to stitch him up. The doc decides that since it's a straight cut, and he's an active little boy, that they would be better gluing it shut.

And thus the true nightmare began.

First they put my son's arms in a pillowcase. Then they wrapped a sheet around him from neck to knees. The poor kid looked like a mummy. Then my husband had to lie on top of him and two (yes, two) nurses had to hold his head still while I stood over him, stroked his cheek, whispered nonsense, and tried not to cry.

Boyo, during all of this, fought with the strength of an entire football team, screaming and sobbing, "I no want to!" at the top of his lungs.

The entire process took about ten thousand hours (or 10 minutes, but really, who is counting?), before they let my son up. He glared at us, shouted, "Leab me ALONE!" and fell asleep in his Daddy's arms.



He was still crying in his sleep three hours later.

And what did my son learn from this? Not a damn thing.

The next morning, he tried to use the step stool as a jungle gym. And that afternoon, I caught him trying to climb up the kitchen counters.



So I guess I should be lucky that we were able to go 2 years and 9 months before we had to make our first blood related ER trip with him.