Why I'm so bushed ...

Exhibit A (prior to haircut):



I mean, seriously, he's sporting the Hank Green haircut (when Hank's let it get a little long. I totally sound like a stalker, but hey! I LIVED for Brotherhood 2.0 last year.)

Post-haircut:


I mean, really ... I know that I might be a little biased, but my little man is frakkin' ADORABLE! Is he not amazingly handsome?? (Brad Pitt, eat your heart out! And Hugh Laurie, you've got some serious competition ... Especially if my son ever develops that plummy Brit accent. *fans self*)

Now, since I've alluded to it ... WHY, really, am I so bushed? Why am I tired? Has he stopped sleeping through the night? No, I mean, he'll sometimes wake and need to be put back in his bed/tucked in/taken to the potty ... but nothing serious there.
Has he started running down the street? Well, really, I'd have to take him outside (or leave the screen door unattended. There was that one time ...), but everything's cool there.

No. Here's the deal. I'm at the computer. Michael's in the kitchen. Backs are turned for a second. And THEN, crying, blood, and a general cry of "whither the fries?!?!?"

Michael rushes Bruise to the bathroom to try and assess the damage. I scan the kitchen -- no knives left out, no kitchen shears or scissors left in his reach (Not even if he started to climb the counter), no sharp edges on the dishwasher, cupboards or fridge. What could it be??

Bruise is calling for me, so we try to calm him down, clean Bucket's face (so maybe my hands will stop shaking -- I can handle blood. I do get nervous, though. And adrenaline ... well, it's pumping just RECALLING yesterday. So I'll be correcting this entry a LOT), cuddle Bruise while Michael tries to hold the thumb-pad skin-flap down and slow the bleeding. After about a minute, Bruise lets me hold him under one arm (while he's sitting at the bathroom counter) and I can put a bandage over his thumb and tape it in place. (All those first-aid classes I took with mom -- since teachers have to know first-aid -- are in my mind. My first priority is to stop the bleeding. And I gave him some ibuprofen. If it were less serious, that would have gotten him calmed down asap.) I've already called the doctor and we're ready to meet him in the next town as soon as we can get there.

The bandage I have on there is working. And a popsicle calms him down. We try to quiz him on what happened, how he sliced his thumb (No pictures of that. Sorry. I figured that my first priority was to stop the bleeding. You got pictures of Bucket's lip because the bleeding had stopped and was under control. Not this time.) ... He wasn't giving us answers that we could piece together. We tried to figure if he had cut it on the cupboard (it didn't LOOK like a pinch, but maybe?) or some hardware on the fridge or dishwasher ... Bucket kept trying to talk to us ... Not that she knew what had happened. Finally we gave up and let her tell us the story of Jonah ("The fish spit Jonah out. *retching noise*" ... That's my girl).

We get to the clinic. Dr. R takes a look, complimenting my taping job (as we took off the tape, it starts to bleed again. At least, with all the bleeding, we know it's a clean wound. Something good, right?). With how the cut is (the pad is sliced to the nail on one side), they wouldn't do sutures (stitches). Instead, we get what's called a "pressure bandage." Pretty much, with a bandage and that stuff they use to secure the bandage after you give blood ... that stretchy-stuff. I don't know the name for it ... Bruise is given what we call the "Cookie Monster Thumb." (It's blue and it's a much more comforting name for him. He loves him some Cookie Monster.)



He'll wear that for three days. Wednesday, I get to take him back into town and get the dressing changed and see what else needs to happen.

I feel the onset of more wrinkles and some grey hairs. Seriously, I could have a case of the vapors sometime.

But, for some good news, sister-in-law T1 is engaged. We'll have a wedding in September. And we'll lose her to the big city up north. She better come visit often, though.

Okay, from just typing all that (and reliving bits in my head), I feel the need to lie down. And maybe get a massage. Or, at least, just breathe deeply and hug that little man of mine and put him in a bubble where he can't ever get hurt again.
And Bucket can be in a bubble, too. I don't think I can handle them getting hurt anymore. Skinned knees are one thing (Bruise got a couple last week), but slicing and dicing?

Oh, and he did let us know what happened after we got home. We have a cupboard that doesn't always latch all the way (you know, those child-safe latches? Well, don't always depend on those. Especially around too-smart-for-their-own-good children). Bruise had cut his thumb on the blade of a food processor.

Yeah.

Sharp.

But, hey! At least we didn't have to go to the ER. That would have killed me. I hate how expensive that place is. And the wait!! And the cost!!

This is why I love our clinic. They have a doctor on-call for emergencies.

Now, I'm going to curl up in a corner, pet my hair, breathe deeply, and hope that the pain in my arm is just from stress and carrying around my heavy children. Or sleeping on it.

(I checked. It's just a sore muscle. Feels like I got kicked by a horse. Because I don't want to have a heart attack.)

Yes, petting my hair helps. I have soft hair. *pets hair*

Let's hope that I have absolutely NO excitement the rest of this year. I don't know that I can handle it.

Really, I can get more than enough excitement from books. Let's keep it that way.

Unless someone wants to give us an all-expense-paid trip to Disneyland.
I might be able to handle that.