Full House

All three kids are home today. My youngest, because it is a Mommy Day and not a preschool day. My other two... Well...

My oldest came home from school with a my-tummy-hurts and promptly went to the basement couch. All was well and good, until after bath. I was starting to jammies on the youngest, when all of a sudden The Boy runs up the stairs crying.

I ask what's wrong... "I tried to put a bandaid on it!" And then I see the blood.

I put him at the sink and run cold water, trying to assess the damage.

He won't tell me what he did. Doesn't matter, it's not going to stop bleeding. I grab a clean washcloth and cover it up, squeezing. "Just hold this on it, tight." I'm guessing he was trying to cut something. My three year old is struggling to get her jammies on her wet little body.

After a minute, I look again. The bleeding hasn't slowed. Crap.

My oldest is already in bed, not asleep, but with a sore tummy.

Command Decision Time. "Coats and shoes on!"

We're in the car in under three minutes.

Did I mention that my husband was at a work function?

As I start up the car, my mind races... Nearest clinic... Right by the craft store. Hmmm... Wonder how I knew that one...

We get there and I see that they're open until 9 pm, it's 8:15.

I still hadn't called my husband at this point. I figured that I'd wait until we were checked in, and I'd call him. The only problem? There wasn't anyone waiting.

I no more than give the receptionist the info, and the nurse pops out, "Come on back!"

Long story short, it's fairly superficial and no stitches. Just a litle dermabond (aka superglue, ask for it!) and tape. As we're walking out, I call my husband... "Why didn't you call me?" There really wasn't a good answer except that I was planning to. They don't call it the waiting room for nothing. He said had I called him that he'd have come right over. I know. I know he would have. I just... Maybe I'm too used to handling stuff on my own.

We load back up in the car. It's 8:30. Fifteen minutes, it and out. That's service.

The Big Girl looks green. "Mom, I really don't feel good..."

"I know, we're almost home..."

Splat. Poor girl threw up in the car. There was nothing I could do except talk her through it. We were about two blocks from home. I park in the driveway, unload the kids, and assess the damage.

After tucking the kids in my bed with cartoons, I head out with a bucket, rags, and fabric spray. Ten minutes later, the car is starting to smell normal and my hands are freezing. I come back in, two of the kids are already asleep, and the Toddler is fighting it.

I tuck them in their own beds, and crawl into my own. The paranoia hits. What exactly was The Boy doing in the kitchen? He still won't say.

This only reinforces the saying, "Every grown man is a miracle."



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