Monday, November 28, 2011

Are You Going to Take Me to the Doctor or What?

A couple of weeks ago as Bonus and I were waiting for RNR to race out of the school building (kindergartners get out a few minutes before the other grades), Bonus was doing something he is not supposed to do.  Yes, I know, you are all shocked.  Bonus was climbing on the concrete planters by the stairs to the school.  I asked him to stop and reminded him that he needs to follow the rules of his school, and he needs to obey me.
Bonus and I have had this talk, well, nearly daily since the first day of school.

I don't think we are going to have to have it again.  

You see, Bonus ignored me when I told him to stop climbing on the planters, and he fell.  Big time.

Don't worry.  He's fine.  No concussions or broken bones.  Just a lot less skin on the back of his knee and the back of his calf.  And like he says, "I lost some of my blood out of my body."  The moaning and wailing was earsplitting.  A copious harvest of tears washed down his sweaty, dirty cheeks, trailed onto his favorite football t-shirt, and eventually, left spots of wet on my shoulders, hands, and blouse.

As the older kids emerged from the school his cries of pain seemed to get louder, and the kids would look at him and then quickly turn their heads as though to preserve his privacy or dignity.  Or maybe they just weren't all that interested in his injury.  Or thought he was a big crybaby.  It's hard to know.

His tears didn't stop until we reached the van and I used the last, odd components in the car first aid kit to fashion a rudimentary bandage, which I promised him would only have to suffice until we reached home (a short mile).  The piercing screams exchanged for soft whimpers, we loaded up and made the short drive successfully.

Piling out of the van and into the kitchen, Bonus seated himself at the kitchen table to await his treatment.  As I removed the gauze square taped to his skin with tiny band-aids one might use on a paper cut and lifted a wet paper towel to his wound, he asked, "Mommy, is it going to hurt?"

I answered, "Yes, son, it is."

"Wait, then."

"No, we need to get this cleaned off and get the bleeding to stop."


I washed the scrapes and blotted blood.  Then, he spied the bottle of antiseptic wash I had pulled out of the cabinet. 

"Mommy, that's going to hurt!"

"Yes, it probably will, but we need to clean it."

He winced.

I hated to make him cry again (makes me sad AND I had a splitting headache), but I poured the blue liquid over his ripped flesh. 

He screamed that it was stinging, so I pressed on it and blew on it.  I applied the bandages hoping that my efforts would help him to feel some small comfort. 

Not so much comfort.

He splayed himself across two of the kitchen chairs and writhed in pain, all the while telling me it was my fault for putting the medicine on the cuts.  And yelling that I needed to take him to the doctor and what kind of a mother was I anyway?  Ahem...  At this point, I'm about to lose my cool.  

I looked him directly in the eyes and told him I was sorry he was hurting but that I was not going to pay a doctor $30 to put a bandaid on his leg, and then I went to tend to his sister for a moment.

From the living room, I almost immediately hear "I'm dying in here.  Are you going to take me to the doctor or what?"


Apparently, I only think I'm speaking in plain English, or I need to clean the wax out of the kid's ears.  Or maybe both.

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