Stop the drama!
Mmmmmmkay, so just before we went to the beach, Clay gave me a black eye. Then, after a (blissfully uneventful) week on vacation, I came back home and had emergency gallbladder surgery. That was quite enough excitement for me, but apparently the universe disagreed.
The week after my surgery, I get a call at work from our daycare. Seems Clay was reaching/climbing up to the top of his cubby to get something, and the whole thing fell over on him. Seems he has a big gash in his head. (Turned out to be on the back of his scalp, but I was imagining it right in the center of his forehead at the time.) Seems he will probably need stitches.
Gulp. I hurry over to the daycare, calling the pediatrician's office on the way to see if sewing up a head is something they can do at the office. (It is. Seriously?) Get to little man, get him to the doctor's office, then physically HOLD him still while they put four STAPLES in his scalp. (Apparently, staples hold the scalp together better than stitches. Who knew? I'm learning all kinds of things I don't care to be informed about.) It was special.
Mom and dad were kind enough to keep him for a couple of days, until the wound wasn't so sore and raw. (Ick.) Back to daycare he went the following week.
And did I mention the following week? HOW could I have forgotten? On the way in to work, I got a big ugly flat tire on the Interstate. It was burning up hot outside, and I was wearing a dress with a full skirt. I called hubs, who didn't pick up his phone. Then I called my boss to let him know I'd be late.
My boss was all, "So you didn't actually TALK to Brian? You left him a message? Don't worry. I'm on my way. I can put the spare on in, like, 10 minutes."
Little did the poor man remember that NOTHING involving me takes 10 minutes.
He gets there, jacks up the car a bit, and it rolls. (We were on a bit of an incline.) So, we inch the car up a bit to get on level ground (probably shredding what's left of the tire). Then, he jacks the car up again, puts the spare on, and lowers the jack. We are sweating like pigs. It is a sad state of affairs, people in the computer.
I'm trying to "help," in my anemic way, and in the meantime, every 18-wheeler whizzing past is blowing my skirt to kingdom come. (I'm still convinced that half of I-55 saw my panties that morning.)
Guess what? Spare's out of air. Blankety-blank-blank.
By this time, hubs is there, and he luckily has some fix-a-flat. We fill the spare with air, take it to the shop, then go back to work. Picked the car back up on the way home.
Needless to say, I'm really, REALLY hoping that this week is drama-free.
The week after my surgery, I get a call at work from our daycare. Seems Clay was reaching/climbing up to the top of his cubby to get something, and the whole thing fell over on him. Seems he has a big gash in his head. (Turned out to be on the back of his scalp, but I was imagining it right in the center of his forehead at the time.) Seems he will probably need stitches.
Gulp. I hurry over to the daycare, calling the pediatrician's office on the way to see if sewing up a head is something they can do at the office. (It is. Seriously?) Get to little man, get him to the doctor's office, then physically HOLD him still while they put four STAPLES in his scalp. (Apparently, staples hold the scalp together better than stitches. Who knew? I'm learning all kinds of things I don't care to be informed about.) It was special.
Mom and dad were kind enough to keep him for a couple of days, until the wound wasn't so sore and raw. (Ick.) Back to daycare he went the following week.
And did I mention the following week? HOW could I have forgotten? On the way in to work, I got a big ugly flat tire on the Interstate. It was burning up hot outside, and I was wearing a dress with a full skirt. I called hubs, who didn't pick up his phone. Then I called my boss to let him know I'd be late.
My boss was all, "So you didn't actually TALK to Brian? You left him a message? Don't worry. I'm on my way. I can put the spare on in, like, 10 minutes."
Little did the poor man remember that NOTHING involving me takes 10 minutes.
He gets there, jacks up the car a bit, and it rolls. (We were on a bit of an incline.) So, we inch the car up a bit to get on level ground (probably shredding what's left of the tire). Then, he jacks the car up again, puts the spare on, and lowers the jack. We are sweating like pigs. It is a sad state of affairs, people in the computer.
I'm trying to "help," in my anemic way, and in the meantime, every 18-wheeler whizzing past is blowing my skirt to kingdom come. (I'm still convinced that half of I-55 saw my panties that morning.)
Guess what? Spare's out of air. Blankety-blank-blank.
By this time, hubs is there, and he luckily has some fix-a-flat. We fill the spare with air, take it to the shop, then go back to work. Picked the car back up on the way home.
Needless to say, I'm really, REALLY hoping that this week is drama-free.
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