Nope, this clearly wasn't on the agenda...
May. 9th, 2003 08:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slipjig3It was supposed to be a relatively simple evening: I get out of work at 6:30, I meet Mom-in-Law, Abbey and Nik at Abbey's open house at the elementary school, we hang out for a bit, then we go home and go to bed. And for a while, everything was going according to master plan. Abbey had a swell old time being the tour guide, and wanted us to see absolutely every last little thing, in the classroom and out. "This is The Library," she'd say as we entered, gesturing with a grand flourish toward the splendor that is The Library; I half-expected a host of royal buglers to greet us with a fanfare from behind the nonfiction shelves. All in all, a good evening.
Until.
We were in The Cafeteria, checking out some artwork posted by members of the older classes, when Nik, in his usual state of curiosity, took an interest in the stacks of kids' chairs that lined the walls. Evidently, the chairs quickly took an interest in him, because with one tug, he was instantly buried under six of them. He shrieked, and Grandma came to give him get-better hugs, and at first, he seemed more scared than anything else. Then we noticed the blood that had begun to cake in his hair. Discussion over: we beelined for our cars.
Now, Nik himself was fine, emotionally speaking; he wanted to play on the benches once we got outside. But we still wanted to get him cleaned up and make sure everything was copacetic. Meanwhile, Abbey was three notches beyond pouty, because, and I quote, "You always give Nik attention, and you never give it to me!" This was her big day, after all, and we were ruining all of her plans by fawning over her little brother. I had to walk a careful tightrope, making sure that she felt loved and paid-attention-to, while still focusing on Nik, who actually needed attention, and badly. I don't think I was completely successful in this regard, because she ended up writing a long semi-legible note explaning why she had to leave the house forever.
So anyway, we got home, got him mopped up to the degree that he'd let us, and I got a good look at the wound: two inches long and (yucchh) gaping. Back on with the shoes and jacket, and off to the emergency room for needle and thread. He was still in great spirits (better than his worried-sick dad, anyway), and charmed the bajeezus out of the hospital staff, who assured me that it was "no big deal," and that the cut was downright minor compared to the stuff they usually see. Then we got to wait (and wait and...), which gave me an opportunity to call Kristi on her cell phone. She's out travelling in the Midwest until Sunday, and I really regretted calling her and worrying her when she's supposed to be relaxing and having a good time, especially since (a) it was "no big deal," and (b) there was nothing she could really do about it. But as she confirmed to me over the phone, she would have killed me if I hadn't. So. I reassured her as best I could, but I could still hear the little tiny voice in the back of her head trying to decide if she could trade in her plane ticket for an earlier return flight. (She didn't, though. Good for her.)
As long as the wait was, though, once we got in everything went lickety-split. (For some reason, typing the phrase "lickety-split" during a head wound discussion just icked me out.) They showed us in, shaved the relevant part of his head (tres avant garde), doused it with Novocaine, scrubbed it up with betadyne, and then brought out the STAPLE GUN. Now I've been blessed with no major hospital visits in my lifetime, so I'd never gotten to see this thingamabob in action, and now that I have, I think I'd have been just as happy without that little experience under my belt, thank you very much. (If it's any indication, when it was over, the doctor asked if I was okay.) Two big ol' staples, right there in his scalp, like he was a beloved teddy bear that had to be stitched back up again, which of course he was. He hollered, even with the Novocaine, but that faded very quickly, with the help of cuddles and his favorite blanket, the two-part cure for everything (it is for me, anyway).
So he's fine, Abbey's fine, Kristi's fine, I think I'm fine, or at least I will be when the Tylenol kicks in. I believe a long nap is in order for today.
Until.
We were in The Cafeteria, checking out some artwork posted by members of the older classes, when Nik, in his usual state of curiosity, took an interest in the stacks of kids' chairs that lined the walls. Evidently, the chairs quickly took an interest in him, because with one tug, he was instantly buried under six of them. He shrieked, and Grandma came to give him get-better hugs, and at first, he seemed more scared than anything else. Then we noticed the blood that had begun to cake in his hair. Discussion over: we beelined for our cars.
Now, Nik himself was fine, emotionally speaking; he wanted to play on the benches once we got outside. But we still wanted to get him cleaned up and make sure everything was copacetic. Meanwhile, Abbey was three notches beyond pouty, because, and I quote, "You always give Nik attention, and you never give it to me!" This was her big day, after all, and we were ruining all of her plans by fawning over her little brother. I had to walk a careful tightrope, making sure that she felt loved and paid-attention-to, while still focusing on Nik, who actually needed attention, and badly. I don't think I was completely successful in this regard, because she ended up writing a long semi-legible note explaning why she had to leave the house forever.
So anyway, we got home, got him mopped up to the degree that he'd let us, and I got a good look at the wound: two inches long and (yucchh) gaping. Back on with the shoes and jacket, and off to the emergency room for needle and thread. He was still in great spirits (better than his worried-sick dad, anyway), and charmed the bajeezus out of the hospital staff, who assured me that it was "no big deal," and that the cut was downright minor compared to the stuff they usually see. Then we got to wait (and wait and...), which gave me an opportunity to call Kristi on her cell phone. She's out travelling in the Midwest until Sunday, and I really regretted calling her and worrying her when she's supposed to be relaxing and having a good time, especially since (a) it was "no big deal," and (b) there was nothing she could really do about it. But as she confirmed to me over the phone, she would have killed me if I hadn't. So. I reassured her as best I could, but I could still hear the little tiny voice in the back of her head trying to decide if she could trade in her plane ticket for an earlier return flight. (She didn't, though. Good for her.)
As long as the wait was, though, once we got in everything went lickety-split. (For some reason, typing the phrase "lickety-split" during a head wound discussion just icked me out.) They showed us in, shaved the relevant part of his head (tres avant garde), doused it with Novocaine, scrubbed it up with betadyne, and then brought out the STAPLE GUN. Now I've been blessed with no major hospital visits in my lifetime, so I'd never gotten to see this thingamabob in action, and now that I have, I think I'd have been just as happy without that little experience under my belt, thank you very much. (If it's any indication, when it was over, the doctor asked if I was okay.) Two big ol' staples, right there in his scalp, like he was a beloved teddy bear that had to be stitched back up again, which of course he was. He hollered, even with the Novocaine, but that faded very quickly, with the help of cuddles and his favorite blanket, the two-part cure for everything (it is for me, anyway).
So he's fine, Abbey's fine, Kristi's fine, I think I'm fine, or at least I will be when the Tylenol kicks in. I believe a long nap is in order for today.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-05-09 07:22 am (UTC)Maybe Mom-in-law will take Nik one day and you can have a special day with Abbey alone? Her choice of venue? Something that will showcase her, maybe even a special day to just see her school to make up for some of the things that you missed? I know it is hard with two children, and the oldest can feel so left out sometimes, even when it seems silly to us. Not that I think you don't understand her feelings, I get the feeling you "get it". *more hugs for you*
(no subject)
Date: 2003-05-10 06:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-05-09 08:39 am (UTC)And maybe Abbey can give you that tour another time.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-05-10 06:55 pm (UTC)