For starters, I'm not exactly squeamish. I've had my fair share of bloody lips, stitches, scraped knees, massive strawberries from sliding in softball, in addition to a collection of bruises, sprained ankles, bruised tailbones and even a broken arm.
I should also note that I am usually a pro in tough or emergency situations. My senior year of college I came back to my dorm from a late shift at work to find a freshman guy who lived on the same floor as me standing in broken glass with a super bloody hand, cut so far deep you could actually see some muscle or tendon. While he and my friend were freaking out I grabbed him a towel, got him to my car and drove him to the emergency room. I sat there and held his other hand (slightly less bloody) at 3 a.m. while they stitched him back up, all while the doctor showed me the different things that make up your hand muscles.
And I am seriously excellent when dealing with vomit. While I don't prefer to hang around it, I can handle it and be the galpal holding your hair back while you toss your cookies.
You'd think all of these things would qualify me for a mother-of-the-year award when it came to scary situations involving my kids. Unfortunately, something completely different happens.
When something less than sugar and spice and everything nice impacts my kiddos, I turn into freakazoid, leaky-eye mom. Take for example Pearyn's salmonella outbreak of 2012. When she started Exorcist-style throwing up we had her over to an ER faster than you can say Linda Blair. And for the weeks following that incident, I don't think I slept more than 45 minutes at a time because I had to make sure she wasn't throwing up and she wasn't choking on said imaginary throw up.
So it's safe to say I'm great in a snafu, as long as I didn't birth you from my body.
Case and point last week. In a stroke of timing, coincidence and luck, my college roomie was in my very own town meeting with a client. Naturally, we decided to meet up for a bite to eat and I brought my kids in tow. The meal was going smoothly, we were ordering a cupcake and signing the bill when Braeburn stood up and took a tumble from his high chair. On the way down he hit the back of his head on a table. (Before you ask he WAS strapped in his seat, however, he did apparently find a way to wiggle himself out of it). He started crying instantly and got up to try and walk to me. I picked him up and consoled him for the next five minutes, until he was finally calmed down as I placed him in his car seat. He was a bit fuzzy and tired, but it was his nap time. Besides, he was smiling, so he had to be OK, right?
So I called his doctor and asked if I should bring him in to be safe. They told me I could monitor him for the next day and if he started to go limp, act listless or throw up to run him straight to the ER. I felt a little more at ease and started the commute back home.
Two minutes into said car ride and my poor baby boy started vomiting everywhere. And not like, "Oh I've been crying a bunch and am gagging myself" vomiting, but all-out, emptying the contents of his stomach, vomiting.
Thankfully I was less than a half a mile from an emergency room, but it didn't make the drive much easier. I debated the entire three-minute drive over whether I should pull over and help him vomit, if he could choke on it or if I did pull over and help him vomit would his brain like implode or bleed or blow up?
Somehow I made it with my daughter and dazed son in tow, covered in the vegan pancakes my little man had just thrown up, trying to check him into the ER. They kept asking me all these pesky things and I remember thinking "I'm the worst mom in the world" because I can't recall his social security number all while trying to keep my daughter calm, get my son checked in and not completely fall apart myself.
The check-in nurses were a Godsend. They were both mommas themselves and understood exactly where I was coming from. They reassured me time and time again that it wasn't my fault, things happened and I was still a good mom to my baby boy.
Three hours, an exam and a set of x-rays later and Braeburn was awarded his first mild concussion ever.
He's doing fine now, he was actually on the mend as we were checking out of the hospital, but it doesn't ease my worried mommy mind or make me feel any better. All I keep telling my husband is that I'll probably lose it he ever wants to play football.
What amazed me most, however, is how freely life went on while all of this was happening. There were people going through emergencies all around me and I couldn't begin to tell you what it was or why they were there.
I'd like to say it was at least a valuable lesson learned by Brae, but judging by the number of times he tried to climb his lawn chair this weekend I'm starting to think he didn't.
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