Warning: I’m in a weird capsy mood today so there are random asides here, all in caps, just for the fun of it.
So today (*actually, yesterday, because this post was bugging me and so I’m editing*), I’m going to recount a story that does not belong to me, and let me add, oh, how I love to rip off stories. Just wait until I get to the one about the stroller that rolled down the hill into the interstate, YES THAT’S RIGHT I SAID THE INTERSTATE (skip to the end: baby survived because of crack maneuvering of a SCHOOL BUS. seriously, you can’t make this stuff up.). But I’ll save that for another day when I’ve either had zero sleep or my writing brain has completely shut down.
My sister, whom I have previously mentioned re: Brook Shields, etc., etc., has three kids: Bear (boy, 7), Cakes (girl, 5) and Gracie (girl, 21ish months) (also, yes, I have changed their names WE ARE NOT THOSE PEOPLE WHO NAME THEIR KIDS CRAZY STUFF LIKE ALFALFA HYPERGLOW. but if you are one of those people, I completely respect you, really, NO INTERNET FRIEND PANDERING HERE LOOK AWAY.). Anyway, so she and Cakes and Gracie were out at Wendy’s with some friends, and their friends own a minivan of the species in which the door slides open and closed of its own volition (which by the way freaks me out, like those crazy cars that park themselves WHO’S DRIVING THIS TRAIN?). Gracie, who is a ray of edible yummy sunshine, was standing by the minivan and she and Cakey were examining their friends’ toys or floor mats or the gum under the seat, I dunno, when my sister heard this:
Sure enough, sweet yummy Gracie had done a faceplant into the edge of that sliding door (which, at least, was in a stationary position at the time). My sister, with her kung fu mommyreflexes, scooped Gracie up and was inside setting up a portable triage center with napkins and ice and plastic flatware before Gracie’s forehead had even bruised. She ended up swollen to the size of a small melon and imprinted with the inner workings of a minivan sliding door, but did not (miraculously) bleed. Not that this made the situation any better. Doctors were called, concussions assessed, sweet sleeping babies woken at all hours. She’s fine, other than that goose egg. But still. Lucky, right?
But that was my sister’s point: there is nothinglikeNOTHINGLIKE the sound of your child doing a faceplant or a bodily-injury-plant of any kind. I thought I was pretty tough before all this baby business came along (although perhaps you’ve read my other posts and are laughing at my self-delusion, uh-huh, right, THANKS.). Dane’s right at that age where he’s good with sitting about 99% of the time, but that 1% when he falls over backward or sideways and hits that sweet baby noggin is horrifying (despite the fact that he has yet to hurt himself, KNOCK ON WOOD RUB A RABBIT’S FOOT PLEASE KARMA DON’T SMACK ME DOWN). Almost as bad as the thunk is the silence immediately following, that one second where you and the rest of the world hold your breath before the giant-red-faced-open-mouthed-full-gum cry, because that moment is the moment of ANTICIPATION and I don’t care what anyone tells you, the anticipation is definitely NOT the best part. OF ANYTHING. PERIOD.