Round Four (in which I get my mother of the year award)

Thanks to everyone for your good wishes. Can I call ya'll for bail if I need it? Seriously.

Round four in the "let's see just how much more she can take" beatdown occurred last night. Silas had just finished his bath and was about to brush his teeth (teefs). We have a stainless steel pop-top trashcan in the bathroom that he likes to stand on because it puts him at the perfect height for teef brushing. Yes, we do have a step stool. He likes the trashcan, shut up. As he leans over to get his toof paste, the can goes out from under him. In a matter of what seemed like ten minutes two seconds he slams his chin on the granite sink top, goes ass over teakettle onto the floor and cracks the back of his head on the toilet. Much screaming (his, not mine) ensues. Much blood ensues also.

His little system was in such a shock from the pain, he was bucking around like he was being electrocuted. My first thought was "oh god, he's seizing". Once I got him settled down to check for damage, it wasn't so bad. Bump on the back of the head, gash on the chin, cuts to the inside of the mouth.

If this had happened only a half hour earlier, we could've gone to Urgent Care. As it was past 8pm, we had to utilize our esteemed ER. How dare my child inconvenience me by injuring himself at a late hour? We spent four hours waiting to get a 1 inch gash looked at. And then, thankfully, he didn't need stitches. Because it was a straight cut, it could be glued shut. (I asked about the possibility of glueing his mouth shut too (my child? he's a talker) but no go). So Durabond is my new favorite thing. I was so grateful he didn't have to be sewn. SweetieDarling had to have stitches in her chin at his age and it was awful. They strapped her down and everything.

Silas was a real trooper through all of this, charming everyone in the ER with his nonstop chatter. I'm sure all of the sick people waiting to be seen were quite entertained. Me? Not so much. With my burned looking hands and feet, inability to walk properly because of said feet hurting on the bottoms and general grumpiness because I had just injured my child by letting him stand on a trashcan, everyone kept their distance. I didn't mind.

Here's the tally so far. Husband, jail. Kid, hospital. Me, sickbed. When's that mothering award coming?