The Strandbergs' First Stitches
It was early in the afternoon on Sunday, November 27, our actual sixth anniversary. (We had celebrated the occasion two days earlier by taking 30 blissful hours away from the kids. We love our children, but we do appreciate getting a chance to love each other--and I mean that in the purest, most wholesome sense, for those of you who went directly elsewhere.) I was cleaning up after a lunch of Thanksgiving leftovers, and our dear aunt was moving about the house on a hunting-and-gathering expedition as she prepared to head back to Kalamazoo. It was a relaxed, peaceful time.
Then came the thud, followed in quick tempo by the bellowing, all just outside the kitchen door. The distorted voice was that of our son, who under normal circumstances is not a crier. He can run head-first into a wall, shrug, and keep on running. He recently got a flu shot with no reaction beyond a tiny flinch. (The same was true for his do-exactly-what-big-brother-does little sister.) So when I heard him wailing sincerely and without a hint of fatigue, I got a little worried.
I hurried over to discover our son sprawled on the three steps that lead from our pseudo-mud room to our kitchen hallway. He did not look happy.
I quickly discerned that in the three or so seconds it had taken me to arrive on the scene, he had gone from pained to angry. This fall was a grave injustice, and he was clearly displeased. I sat on the stairs and took him into my lap to assess the damage.
"Show Mama where it hurts, honey," I said.
"RrrrRRRRrrr," he said, tucking his chin into his right shoulder. At least I knew where to look.
A little crescent of blood stained his shirt where his chin had been. With a little more concern, I said, "Let me see."
After a few more duck-and-cover maneuvers, his shirt had four little blood-moons on it. I finally managed to lift his jaw enough to check the wound. It did not look good. There wasn't much blood, but the gore factor was high enough to raise my anxiety. I didn't think this crack in his chin was going to heal properly without medical attention beyond a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid, which was the best I had to offer.
"I think he needs stitches," I said, not at all sure I was right. But off he went to the ER with his dad while I stayed home with a napping younger child. This seemed like the stuff of male bonding.
And it was. When the two of them arrived home two hours later, they were in good humor.
"Was that topical chocolate used as anesthetic?" I asked, eyeing the brownish oval around his mouth.
"Well, sort of," responded Daddy. "Dairy Queen was the little guy's choice. When I asked him what kind of ice cream he wanted, he said, 'Well, um--chocolate, of course!'"
There was naturally much ado over the four stitches that made the brave little fellow, whom the ER doc deemed "his best patient all day," look like he had a tiny black goatee. With all of us ooh-ing and ahh-ing over them, the wounded party wanted to see them himself, so we went to get the camera.
"Look up at the ceiling so Daddy can take a picture," I said. "Then you can see what they look like."
Obediently, he turned his face upward.
"Cheese!" he said.
Then came the thud, followed in quick tempo by the bellowing, all just outside the kitchen door. The distorted voice was that of our son, who under normal circumstances is not a crier. He can run head-first into a wall, shrug, and keep on running. He recently got a flu shot with no reaction beyond a tiny flinch. (The same was true for his do-exactly-what-big-brother-does little sister.) So when I heard him wailing sincerely and without a hint of fatigue, I got a little worried.
I hurried over to discover our son sprawled on the three steps that lead from our pseudo-mud room to our kitchen hallway. He did not look happy.
I quickly discerned that in the three or so seconds it had taken me to arrive on the scene, he had gone from pained to angry. This fall was a grave injustice, and he was clearly displeased. I sat on the stairs and took him into my lap to assess the damage.
"Show Mama where it hurts, honey," I said.
"RrrrRRRRrrr," he said, tucking his chin into his right shoulder. At least I knew where to look.
A little crescent of blood stained his shirt where his chin had been. With a little more concern, I said, "Let me see."
After a few more duck-and-cover maneuvers, his shirt had four little blood-moons on it. I finally managed to lift his jaw enough to check the wound. It did not look good. There wasn't much blood, but the gore factor was high enough to raise my anxiety. I didn't think this crack in his chin was going to heal properly without medical attention beyond a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid, which was the best I had to offer.
"I think he needs stitches," I said, not at all sure I was right. But off he went to the ER with his dad while I stayed home with a napping younger child. This seemed like the stuff of male bonding.
And it was. When the two of them arrived home two hours later, they were in good humor.
"Was that topical chocolate used as anesthetic?" I asked, eyeing the brownish oval around his mouth.
"Well, sort of," responded Daddy. "Dairy Queen was the little guy's choice. When I asked him what kind of ice cream he wanted, he said, 'Well, um--chocolate, of course!'"
There was naturally much ado over the four stitches that made the brave little fellow, whom the ER doc deemed "his best patient all day," look like he had a tiny black goatee. With all of us ooh-ing and ahh-ing over them, the wounded party wanted to see them himself, so we went to get the camera.
"Look up at the ceiling so Daddy can take a picture," I said. "Then you can see what they look like."
Obediently, he turned his face upward.
"Cheese!" he said.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 5:46 PM
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