That’s Definitely Gonna Leave a Scar
The phone rings at noon. Seeing my daycare provider’s name on caller i.d. makes my heart skip a beat.
First thing out of her mouth, “Berit, you should come get Roy right away.”
Heart resumes beating—much faster than usual.
“He ran into the fireplace and cut his head open. He’s going to need stitches.”
Oh, baby boy. I toss “Trucks,” “Goodnight Moon,” his stuffed loon (aka Looney) and sock monkey into his bag and rush out the door. When I arrive, he’s sitting on her lap, looking at a book as she applies a paper towel-covered ice pack to his head. She removes it so I can see the bright gash above his right eyebrow. Uf. She’s right. He’s going to need stitches.
Our fabulous family practice doctor squeezes us in immediately, as he’s done every time Clint’s needed stitches. I’d really been hoping that in this realm, my son would not follow in his father’s footsteps, let alone before the ripe old age of two.
I keep Roy calm during the cleaning and prepping with the books and toys, but then we must get down to business.
“You’re in charge of his hands,” the doctor instructs. As much as I don’t want to be the one holding my baby down as pain is inflicted upon him, I comply. Roy screams as the anesthetic needle goes in once. Twice. I can’t look. “Hug? Hug?” poor guy wails. The doctor OKs a round of hugs before the real work starts. It’s so incredibly hard to pull away from his clingy little limbs.
It takes a very long time to put four stitches in a strong, wiggly toddler. He cries, and I want to, but I focus on keeping my face calm and reassuring—quite a feat in the face of his pleas for hugs and Daddy. Moments after the stitches are complete, his head is on my shoulder, his body limp and sweaty in my arms. He falls asleep on the car ride home, after which I smuggle him up to his crib, where he’s been sleeping ever since.
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