The Hospital Kid

Hospital Kid

The Hospital Kid. Every family it seems, has one.

At the Non Stepford House, *I* am the acknowledged Hospital Kid. Someone gets hurt, it’s usually me. I mean, I had the porch roof vomit on my head, for crying out loud. It doesn’t get much more ‘Hospital Kid’ than that.

My motto has always been, “Better me than one of the kids.”

I can handle many things, but my kids being hurt is just not one of them. I have a hard time dealing when they have ear infections, because there’s just simply not much I can do beyond meds and waiting for them to kick in. I hate it when one of the kids is sick or hurting.

Well, it seems that Cubby isn’t content with vying for the title of Terror Toddler.

He’s now after my Hospital Kid title to boot.

Freaking overachiever.

Last night, Diva was standing with the fridge door open. An open fridge is a siren’s song for this kid, and he came running. He then promptly tripped over her feet, and went head first into the lip at the bottom of the fridge.

Most sickening thud/bang I’ve ever heard in my life.

And, of course, any parent knows, face/head wounds bleed like stink. I knew at a glance though, we were looking at stitches.

Sure enough, a few hours later, that’s what was happening. Glue wouldn’t work, because it kept bleeding.

I couldn’t watch. Kept my hand on him, kept talking to him, but turned my back. The sight of a needle going into my baby’s forehead was enough to have me looking around frantically for the garbage can.

To the sheer credit of my willpower, I didn’t disgrace myself by throwing up, or passing out, although the Dr saying to Wolf, “It’s not hurting him, it’s the tugging he doesn’t like.” over Cubby’s screaming made it a very close call.

Wolf, who was helping to hold him still announced, “Three stitches!”

And that, right there folks, is the vast difference between Moms and Dads. Or, at least Wolf and I. I’m ready to throw up at the IDEA of stitches in my baby, and he’s counting them out.

I’m here, blogging, waiting for the feeling of, “I’m gonnnnnnaaaa huuuuuurrrrrl” to pass, and he’s sitting on the couch, munching away.

He was teasing me, having been a former health care professional, about ready to do the Technicolor yawn over a few stitches. There’s a REASON that medical professionals don’t work on family members, Dear.

I can, and have, handled blood, puke, seizures, open wounds, without turning a hair.

But not on my kid.

I birthed them without scars, stitches, or broken bones.

They’re supposed to STAY that way, dang it.

Especially when they’re so freaking little.

Ps: He’s feeling better this am. I’ve already had to haul him off kitchen chairs, kitchen TABLE, and have resigned myself to the fact this child will give me a heart attack or stroke before I’m 50.

Back to his usual mischevious self, just with a big bandaid.

Back to his usual mischievous self, just with a big band-aid.

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  1. Pingback: Bazinga The Wonder Dog - Not A Stepford Life

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