Urgh. When we have children we all prepare ourselves for the pain that goes along side it. Not just the day to day stuff which includes constant yabbering and back chat, or the lack of sleep, but the pain of them actually hurting themselves or being ill.
I knew there would be numerous trips to the doctors, and probably some to A&E too. It’s a sick feeling that sits in the bottom of my stomach every time it crosses my mind. Now, nearly four years in to the whole parenting debacle, I would have to say (and as I type this I know I’m probably jinxing myself), we’ve been fairly lucky. We’ve had rashes, allergies, cuts, bruises, falling down stairs, but nothing too serious.
As you know from my last post Fatty has just started walking, gained real confidence, started to walk to objects rather then just people, and he’s really happy, gets this MASSIVE grin on his face.
Yesterday he took a tumble. We were in the lounge and he was heading to the coffee table as he’d spotted his current favourite reading material (the NEXT catalogue – I’m so proud!), and was going for it. We were all sitting on the sofa, Matthew and The Beast sitting watching a movie, and I was just catching up on a few twitter conversations and text messages. I saw it happen. He’d picked up speed, he started to fall forward, he reached for the table, he fell short. He cracked his head. He cried. I feel awful, I missed him, I’d chucked down my phone I’d reached forward, but it was all in slow motion, I wasn’t fast enough.
There were tears, Matt raced from the sofa because he’d heard the THUD and asked if he was bleeding. I didn’t think he was the bit I thought he’d hit was just scuffed, then he lifted up his head. Blood poured down his face into his eye and ear.
I grabbed the tissue from the tissue box (poor Miffy tissues probably didn’t expect to be used to mop up blood), and Matt raced to the bathroom and I ordered him to use my cotton wool pads instead of his answer to clearing up everything – loo roll.
It all happened very quickly, and amazingly calmly. While I was rocking my big fat sobbing baby, we had the running commentary from the beast:
“MUmmy SHHH I’m trying to watch the film, Mummy, look I’m spiderman KSSHH KSSSSSHH”
I discover the cut is almost an inch long. We discuss it and whilst it’s stopped bleeding relativly quickly and he’s stopped crying, we decide to call “111” for advice.
“Mummy, can we play trains?”
I get on the phone, I speak to THE QUIETEST PERSON IN THE WORLD.
He’s asking questions. “Is he restless Mrs Horton?”
“‘SCUSE ME MUMMY, ‘SCUME ME MUMMY, I want to play trains now, you be the yellow train and I be the red one”
Me: “Well, fairly, but then you would be if you had blood in your eye wouldn’t you?”
Startled silence: “How would you say he is restless Mrs Horton?”
“Mummy, Mummy, look, my nail needs cutting”
Me: “well in the normal upset way I guess”
Sounding confused: “Well….is he gasping for air?”
Me: “OHHHHHH BREATHless. I thought you said RESTLESS, no. He’s fine”.
Eventually they advice is as expected. A visit to A&E. This is where I admit what a horrible mother I really am. I didn’t think “oh my poor baby”, I didn’t race there straight away. I thought “oh ffs”. I know that’s wrong. But I kind of knew there wasn’t much wrong with him really, other then the massive cut that wasn’t really bleeding anymore.
So first we packed a picnic. Warmed up the pasta and sauce he was going to have for tea anyway, a yoghurt and some biscuits. I packed a bag with some toys and books.
This might sound strange, but The Beast fell down the stairs at 10 months old and we were there for HOURS, I know how long these things can take.
I left Matthew and The Beast playing trains. We drove up, and checked in (for want of a better phrase!), and sat down. Around us were sick people (obviously). Big ones, little ones, bloody ones, vomiting ones, coughing ones, ones in wheel chairs, one with slings. Urgh. There was a child with a sweet wrapper stuck up her nose, and a little boy about the same age as the Beast with a big bloody lump his forehead, his mum was sobbing. He was quiet.
I got a few dirty looks as I fed the Fat one his dinner, he didn’t help by making “mmm” noises, smacking his lips and getting cross when we ran out. We were seen by the nurse. She had to help me get him back in the pushchair as he tried to escape.
We sat for a bit longer. He ate a biscuit and read his book. A few children gathered round me, I handed out books and toys.
We got to see the Doctor within two and a half hours, which actually, I don’t think is all that bad. I gathered up my books and toys and went in. He took one look at the fat one and said “that’s an easy one”.
He glued him. There were more tantrums. He shouted at the Doctor a lot, told him not to touch, kicked at him and shook his head when the doctor started to talk to him.
We were dismissed, we were free. We drove home, and got the boys in bed by 7.15pm.
I woke up every hour to check on him to make sure he was still alive. He was.
This morning he’s fine, he keeps knocking it, it looks pretty ugly, but it could have been a lot worse.
I have a feeling this is just the start. Do you think I’ll be allowed to take Gin in my pack ups?