In lieu of the last post, in which I declared that despite my pregnant disposition, I was not emotional, I write now it appears, as a hypocrite.
The third trimester has run over me like a big, fat dump truck. I knew the exhaustion would settle back in, but I always forget how difficult it is. Luckily, I’m in the homestretch!
This past week, we had a family celebration for my oldest son’s 3rd birthday. Overall, it was an enjoyable event, especially for our son. Unfortunately, for our second boy, it was not so much.
In the excitement of the arrival of his grandparents, Birthday Boy tore through our living room and with the aggression of a linebacker, shoved his little brother to the ground from behind. This sent little bro face-first to a marble floor. Blood, bruised and busted gums occurred. He is only 17 months old, so to hold a cold washcloth to his upper mouth is like trying to coax a snake to come be pet using the old “here, kitty kitty!” method.
Luckily, due to some of my more naturopath-type friends, I’ve grown in homeopathic knowledge over the years and have a stock of Arnica tablets, Chamomilla and other calming, soothing remedies that almost immediately stopped the bleeding, swelling and inconsolability of our little boy. Follow that up with his pacifier and he was fairly quickly calmed down. But he did not want to be separated from me. I carried him around til he fell asleep.
Crisis over, for the moment. Upon further inspection, he seemed fine. No broken teeth, or bones. Just busted up.
It shook me up right well though and I was distressed for the whole of the party. And I am not good at all at concealing my stress. It permeates to my head and stomach and I feel sick in those areas until I can find quiet rest.
Fast forward three days to Tuesday, and busted-mouth-boy is back in action, his upper gums only a light shade of purple, and quickly healing. I am amazed at how fast the human body heals.
We had my sister and her two toddlers come to play Tuesday morning, along with my mom, who loves seeing all her grand babies in one place. They absolutely adore her.
The slow cleaner that I am, had just set my mom’s large, glass veggie tray out to dry after washing it. My mom moved it to a table next to the door so that she wouldn’t forget to bring it home when she left.
Busted-mouth-boy soon became deeply-cut-boy as he curiously and successfully reached for the tray and pulled it off the table. The tray, as I said, was glass, but a very heavy glass. The table happens to be sitting right at the top of a single step that leads down to our solarium and out of our house. So, standing at this step, is where Emmett grabbed the tray, and by the heaviness of it, he fell forward, on top of the tray, to the marble floor, shattering glass everywhere.
Where was I? Right there. 5 feet away. Watching him do it. My sister? Even closer! But Emmett isn’t a grabber-off-of-the-table-er. And the tray wasn’t in danger of attracting little fingers -wasn’t hanging over the edge. It was one of those odd, shocking moments, that always tend to happen to unsuspecting parents. And I am ALWAYS SUSPECTING!!!! …but I suppose not…
My sister, sitting within 2 feet of Emmett, scooped him up, glass and all. Of course Emmett was crying as I rushed upon him, searching for the inevitable injury.
Then I saw it: 4 inches long on his forearm, splayed open to reveal raw-chicken-like skin, a gaping cut.
What did this confident, sure mom do upon seeing it?
Oh, I panicked of course.
“OH IT’S REALLY BAD!” I was jumping up and down -barefoot on the shattered glass- writhing my hands, saying “OKAYOKAYOKAY What do I do!?!?!?!?!?!!”
Our mom enters the room, saying, “oh it’s probably not that—- yes. Yes, it’s bad. He will need stitches.”
Mom directed me to grab a towel as she slapped her hand over the wound, applying pressure. We tied his tiny arm up in a kitchen towel.
So now, I’m hyperventilating as I rush to grab extra diapers (which I instantly forgot about and left them sitting on the counter), Emmett’s sippy cup of water, pacifier, some homeopath tablets and my purse.
My sister threw mom the keys to her car, saying, “just go!”
We left her with a kitchen full of shattered glass, two toddlers in the living room, and my toddler on the toilet, with a dirty rear end. …bless my sister’s heart.
Thankfully for us, there’s a brand new hospital 5 minutes down the road. Emmett, by now, was calm and happily sucking on his pacifier after being given a Calms Forté tablet (i brought IBuprofen to administer only after he’d been given his stitches because apparently, it can increase bleeding ). By the time we were admitted (which was only another 5 minutes), he had fallen asleep on me.
I however, was on the brink of passing out, as we had to repeatedly show the open wound to each nurse that came into the room. I decided not to look at it anymore, for the sake of staying conscious for my tiny boy.
The doctor and two nurses wrapped my boy in a sheet, swaddle style, to keep his limbs from kicking and flailing while he was stitched up. I laid across him, and held his precious face. I had my mom grab my phone, pull up YouTube and play Elmo’s World while he was operated on. The other two nurses, held his legs and his injured arm steady as the doctor went to work.
The two numbing shots administered caused Emmett to scream like nothing I’ve ever heard come from him or our oldest boy. Three of the eleven stitches, Emmett felt in full. And he looked at me as he cried, with pleading, hurting eyes.
But within an hour, it was over and Emmett had fallen asleep on me again.
When we returned home, my sister, who was leaving for vacation at 4am the next day, had kept everyone alive and content and had tried her best to clean up the glass.
My monologue of woes and stresses now told, I continue to feel pretty darn touchy and emotional. This blog, while mainly dedicated to inform about the evils of abortion and artificial contraceptives, is also therapeutic for me. As I’ve noted, I’m an artist. My hands have to have some rhythmic movement to fulfill in order to clear my brain.
Having typed all of this, I am perfectly aware of the insignificance of the “woes” I’ve told. In fact, while hovering over my boy’s little face, I thought of my 9 year old cousin Breezy (just enter your email), who is ending her battle with bone cancer, who’s had to have her leg from her thigh down removed. I thought of her parents. I thought of the true and heavy stress they’ve had to undergo. I know, my suffering and even my child’s suffering is nothing compared to that.
I know that as a parent, worse may come to us. I pray that I will handle it with the strength that my cousins have with Breezy. It’s got to be goliath.
This is where, without God, I would drive myself completely sick and swear to myself that children aren’t worth the trouble.
But they are. What else on this entire earth is more worthy of my loss of sleep than my own flesh and blood?
I thank you, God, for the lives of my children— all the while knowing that they are not eternally mine, but they are Yours. It’s a hard thing to grasp, and a great faith to possess and maintain. I pray for the grace to understand and bear it, and for the peace that our Virgin Mother must have possessed in order to fully submit her only Son to the world. She was only human, after all.