I know two things to be true about my son and drinking sippy cups. The first is that he prefers the purple base with the blue and yellow top. The soft spout is half gnawed, and cracked right down the center.
The second is that no matter what is in it, no matter how tight I put on the top, how careful he is, how attentive I am to where it is set down, one thing is for certain. With mysterious powers only rivaled by the Bermuda Triangle or that elusive second sock I can never find, somehow, someway...it will be spilled on my red couch.
Now, a little background on my couches. When I was looking into purchasing two new couches for our family room before we moved in three years ago, time and again I heard people swear by Micro-fiber/or is it Micro-suede? I can never remember. "It wears so well", "the spills come out so easily", "snot comes off with nare a scrape of the fabric", etc., etc.
I didn't listen. I chose couches based on the fabric, albeit a non-kid-friendly-gonna-look-like-crap-in-two-years sort of fabric. It is not only NOT kid friendly, but every spill, every wet spot, every snotty nose regifts the stain again and again.
As I was picking up the second spill of the day (along with the mashed up goldfish crackers), I hear a loud bang against the kitchen floor. I ran to see what it was, and there was my little guy Bryce.
Have you ever counted the seconds when you are waiting for a little kid to let out a really loud scream? I look at him and I knew it was coming. His face red, eyes wide, and inhaling deeply to let out that enormous "I'm in PAIN!" wail.
Oh, and the time elapsed was about five seconds.
We have a large wall in our kitchen that houses pictures. For longer than I care to admit, I have been wanting to change the pictures from a row of five to a collage. I found a 3 foot long wall plaque with the saying "It's a Wonderful Life", meant to top the beautiful, timeless wall of black picture frames. I set it there four days ago, just waiting for a nail.
Bryce knocked it over while crawling. I could not tell where it landed, but there was blood next to it on the floor.
I rushed over to pick him up, and blood started dripping to the floor. Fast. All over my white shirt. In my hair, on my face. I searched his head, his neck, feet, arms, looking for where the blood was coming from.
And then I felt it.
I was a cool cucumber before I had kids. The first to jump in and calmly analyze the situation.
Not so much with blood dripping from my second beloved.
I went into all-out-panic mode. I never would have thought I would be one of those See-Blood-and-run-screaming-in-an-absolute-frenzy type moms.
I ran from room to room, trying to find the phone. Somehow, every time I passed it, I did not see it sitting right on the table. Bumping my own head on the cupboard door trying to find a gauzepad or something that looked anti-septic. Searching for something that belonged in a hospital, I tore apart my cabinet. A band aid? I attempt to put that on and it sticks to his finger.
Now, the finger is full of blood with a bandaid sticking to it. Nice work, Jame.
I turned on the faucet, and then deciding against that. I flew up two flights of stairs trying to find something to house the blood.
I think about calling 911.
That last bit makes me ashamed to even be called a mom.
Finally, I did what any self-loathing panicked mom would do.
I called my mom.
Calmly, she told me to call my doctor and that she would be right over.
Well, wouldn't you know it (and I am sure you could have guessed), I know my peds number by heart. So, I called and they walked me through what to look for. During out brief call, the bleeding started to stop and I could finally get a good look at his finger.
I squinted my eyes to see the carnage. Would the tip be dangling, a slice in the side? I wondered. What would have caused all this bleeding?
I swallowed a huge dose of humble pie when I realized it was a cracked fingernail.
Wet Bag Use #12...bloody clothing sent to grandma's house for cleaning.
Now if I could only find something to store my damaged pride. Sheesh.