Everything was going so smoothly.
I was babysitting for my neighbor JK. Foster daughter, M, was in the shower, I had Baby P in a swing and NJ (3.5 yrs) and G were playing on the trapeze bar of the swing set. NJ and G are both too short to reach the bar so the two of them, without my help, figured out that by moving the kiddie picnic table under the trapeze bar they could reach. It was awesome watching them figure out how to move it themselves. There were a few moments of trial and error as one would lift an end but the other wouldn't creating a see-saw effect. But without my interference and through much giggling, they figured they needed to lift simultaneously. I was really proud! Especially since they both have very strong personalities and alternate between being best friends and mortal enemies.
NJ knew exactly what to do: Stand on table, grab bar, swing out, swing back, put feet on table, let go. G's experience went something like this: Stand on table, grab bar, swing out, let go, fall. After one particularly hard fall he started whining for me to help him. And no matter how much he whined I just kept telling him he could do it himself, be brave. (You can see where this is going, can't you? Mom-o'-the-year-award, right?) So he gets up, grabs on, swings out, lets go, falls super hard on his butt. He fell so hard on his butt that it actually forced his head back and he whacked a corner piece underneath the table. I jumped up thinking, "Ohh this is gonna need ice" only to see him take his hand away from the back of his head dripping with blood. Sooooo, I sent NJ inside for M while I took a sec to gather my senses. You know how in an emergency you sort of stand there for a second and it's like your brain is a slot machine and everything is whirring around until suddenly, bing, bing, bing, all the cherries line up in a row and you know what to do? Well, once my brain cleared, I decided the best thing to do was to call an ambulance b/c that, at least, would give me enough to time find out a) if Mike was home yet and b) figure out what to do with the kids I was supposed to be watching. M came out of the house and immediately her poor face went pale when she saw what was going on, b/c by this time G'd bled all over the porch step and all over the lawn chair he tried to sit in (the chair is still stained. Looks like someone was shot in it.) As calmly as I could, I told her to get me the kitchen towel and then asked her to run to my house to see if Mike was home, which, thankfully he was. We heard the sirens start up (b/c literally, we are four blocks from the station. They could have walked over.) Three of the nicest paramedics helped G out. And of course I had to repeat what happened over and over for each of them. Meanwhile I also had to call JK and tell her that I was leaving the kids with M b/c I had to take my kid to the ER. And poor M was kind of shell shocked. I sort of shoved the baby at her and said, "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'll come back as soon as I can." Then I went home to get the car and Mike went w/ G in the ambulance even though it turns out he refused to get into it unless they promised to drive slowly and not turn on the sirens. :) Anyway, to the ER we go, where I have to recount the story four more times, feeling guiltier and guiltier with each telling. Soooo, to wrap up this long ass story, five stitches and one super brave little boy later, we went home and Mike ran to Culvers to get everyone strawberry shakes. :) And his stitches are out now and with the exception of every once in a while asking, "Mama, why didn't you baweeve me when I telled you I need you to catch me?" all of us have healed.
Here's before the stitches (but after he was cleaned up):
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