We were still dragged out from a long weekend when we woke up on Monday morning. My little guys got up with runny noses and coughs. Yes, that means that within the next few weeks, I can anticipate all of us getting sick. Our first winter cold--in September.
My first order of business for the day was to pack lunches for Matt and Grace. I was sending Matt off to what I knew would be a tough day at work, so things were already a bit tense. Then Matt accidentally burned Joseph as he was dishing him some eggs. As he pushed the eggs from the skillet onto the high chair tray, Joseph moved his arm and scraped it against the hot skillet. He started howling immediately. I quickly grabbed the baby, ran cold water over the small area that was burned and settled him down. The burn blistered a bit. I applied coconut oil to it throughout the day, mostly to make myself feel better.
After Matt and Grace left, I got showered and sat down to work on Bible study with the kids. It didn't take me long to determine that the younger kids would not make it to BSF that evening. I didn't want them to spread their cold germs.
Then I scurried around doing I can't remember what until 2:30 p.m. All I know is that I distinctly remember it was one half hour into quiet time by the time I got into my bed to rest my weary bones and brain for a bit. Ten minutes later, Paul came into my room.
He had a tourniquet around his hand. He asked me if I could help him put on a band aid. When I saw that the color was drained from his face, I told him that he'd better sit down at the kitchen table. Let me just interject here. I don't do well with blood. Blood and barf. I can handle any other grossness that motherhood throws at me, but I can't handle blood and barf. So I steeled myself before I removed the tourniquet. It took me one quick look to realize that a band aid would not be sufficient.
I put the handkerchief back on Paul's hand and told him to get into the van. I gave Elizabeth instructions for child care and dinner prep and then Paul and I headed to the urgent care clinic. I hate that place. I swear if you don't die of whatever ailment brought you there, you'll expire from the long wait. On the way there, Paul explained what had happened. He'd been splitting kindling and the hatchet had slipped.
When I asked the woman behind the front desk how long the wait would be and told her my son had cut his hand, she asked, "Is his hand bleeding?" I answered, "Oh yes, it's bleeding." She said, "Oh. Well, we'll take you right back then." Score!
Once the nurse saw Paul and she determined we would not have to go to the ER, the doctor came in to take a look. She asked Paul how he'd done it. After telling her, she said, "Well at least you did it doing some manly thing instead of playing Xbox or something."
She numbed the finger with an injection of Lidocaine (the worst part of the whole procedure) and then she sewed up the cut with six stitches. In and out in a hour and a half. That's my tip. Go into the urgent care actively bleeding to avoid a long wait.
The rest of the week has gone by in a blur. Tomorrow, our first born son, Paul, will turn 13. I sure hope he'll get wiser as he gets older. He already seems to be heading in the right direction. He's fashioned himself a kindling holder so that his hand will be well clear of the hatchet as it comes down on the wood.
No comments:
Post a Comment