You may remember that, a while back, Liza fell and had to have stitches in her lip.
A week later, I rolled my ankle while exercising. It swelled up like an angry pundit and I spent the weekend with it propped in the air. Even now I am wearing this crazy ankle brace which, if science had any compassion, would let me leap hundreds of feet in the air before landing without harm.
Last Thursday night, one week after I rolled my ankle, Eli came running into the kitchen, crying. “I hit my head,” he said, holding his hand to his forehead. Blood covered nearly his whole face.
Our responses, in order, were, “That’s going to have to have stitches!” and “How did you do that?”
“I was jumping off of Liza’s bed and over her Dora dollhouse and I hit my head on her dresser,” he sobbed.
So it was that we bundled him up, left Liza with our friend Alana, and drove to the nearby Urgent Care. There we once again got to confirm that the only thing urgent at an Urgent Care is your feeling of anxiety, as we waited for a little over an hour to see the doctor. Eli soon felt good enough to play with another kid in the waiting room, returning to us every once in a while to get the blood wiped off of his forehead.
When the doctor asked him how he hurt his head, he repeated his story, with one twist. “I wanted to jump over Liza’s dollhouse and the third time I hit my head.” At the words “third time” both Misty’s and my heads swiveled towards him as if we were wrathful owls.
We’ve now had enough of doctor’s visits and emergency stitches for a while. If anyone needs us, we’ll be hiding inside of giant hamster balls trying to avoid getting hurt by anything.