When I had reached my quota of four children, and my mid-section had called a halt to its rapidly expanding and contracting circumference, and the seed had been literally cut off once and for all, the mishaps began.
The first accident happened when an interior door’s hinges made crushing contact with my 10 month old son’s index finger.
He and his older brother, who was three, were playing in the doorway between the master bedroom and the living room. Their parents, we, were cooking, within earshot, in the kitchen; probably throwing together a couple of hotdogs and a bottle (formula in case you were wondering). The ominous silence ended with our oldest running into us talking fast,
“You’re going to hear a very loud scream in a minute.”
And we did!
My youngest son, a few pints of blood down, with a finger barely hanging on by a thread, was carried into the kitchen by my brave husband who had gone pale and was whimpering from the loss of blood, (yes, that’s my husband whimpering and paling).
We piled into the car, hunger forgotten (hot dogs don’t really cut it at the scene of an accident do they?) and made a run for the hospital. My dashing cowboy drove that van as well as he would a bucking bronco; we were begging for a police escort!
He’d stopped crying, and so had the baby, by the time the doctor came in. Dr. Marvel wrapped up the mangled finger in a big bandage and told us to return the next morning for surgery. The bandage slipped off as soon as we got home, I couldn’t look but was told the finger now resembled a zippo lighter.
How they put eleven stitiches in his tiny finger is beyond me but they did. And we hooked all our doors into permanently open positions.
Scar number one down, five more to go!
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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