The Average Blogger : Busting Your Chops

So, the Young Prince finally did it. After years of watching him climb wobbly shelves, get into precarious positions splayed between chairs and tables, and try to hit lightswitches just out of his reach on stairwells, the kid finally splattered.

I admit, I always stood by and watched him do those things sort of hoping he'd fall and get just hurt enough to learn his lesson. And you know, he never did. I'd say, "Be careful, you could fall and get hurt," and he'd shift his balance or pirouette or do some other gymnastic move and leap lightly away from whatever spot he was in and land on his feet.

Apparently grammar school has atrophied this skill.

So yesterday he was in science class. They were cleaning up, and it sounds like up to that point it had been a pretty good day. But he started horsing around, using two desks as parallel bars. I guess his elbows gave out or something, and he face-planted onto the floor.

I was training on a night shift when Not Your Average Blogger came over and motioned me into my office to tell me the principal had called and the YP has busted his lip. The principal also said it looked like the kid needed a stitch, so NYAB was heading out to get him.

I thought it might be better to get him out of school faster, and since NeighborGirl is home from college, and was planning to babysit him for a couple hours anyway, I called her and asked if she'd go get him. She said sure, so I told NYAB he could meet them at home instead of at school, and then called the principal back to tell her someone else was picking up the kid.

According to the principal, he was very upset that I'd be angry. The kid said later that he was upset that I'd think he was ugly. I was admittedly pleased at the former and dismayed by the latter.

NeighborGirl said the school ladies were all very nice, but kind of funny. "Don't look at him," they said. "It's gruesome. And if you see him, don't freak out and react about the gore, he'll just get upset."

NeighborGirl is a total trooper. She thinks stuff like that is kind of cool. We love NeighborGirl.

So she called me when she got him home and said it was pretty gross, but he seemed to be doing OK and she'd hang out for whatever came next. She put him on the phone and he said he'd learned not to do that anymore, and to listen when people told him to stop doing similar things. Then he put NG back on the phone. I told her to drop me an email when NYAB got there to tell me what was going on -- since he is so good about keeping me me informed on such matters -- and that if the YP wanted her to go to the ER with them and she wasn't busy, that'd be nice.

Then I went back to work. I felt moderately guilty, but the truth is I probably was more useful in the office than I would have been in this situation. I don't know.

NeighborGirl emailed an hour later to say the boys were en route to the ER, and that they'd all agreed she didn't need to go.

Forty minutes after that, NYAB emailed to tell me they were waiting for attention at the ER.

And then to tell me the kid got stitches, though no amount of asking got him to tell me how many.

And then to tell me they got a prescription and a popsicle.

And then to tell me the kid barfed in the car.

And then to say they were home.

And then to say the YP's teacher called to see how he was doing. How cool is that? (And to say she'd warned him not to swing on desks. Heh. She's awesome.)

He called after that and I talked to the kid again, who didn't sound nearly as energetic or happy as when I'd talked to him before the hospital. I also was referred to Facebook to find out there had been four stitches. Ah, the modern age.

When I got home, 3 hours later, the rest of the story trickled out. The first version was "Same as last trip, but no Greek stories." Then I heard more. Apparently the kid got so worked up about doctors fussing with his face that they had to try twice -- letting him calm down the first time and then strapping him to the bed for Round Two. NYAB said it was pretty amazing -- there was absolutely nobody home in that little savage animal brain of his.

All I can say is, if he's going to keep getting hurt like this, he'd better grow up about getting himself fixed.

But hey, chicks dig scars. And the YP himself apparently concluded in the ER that, "You know, if the scar is too bad, I can just grow a moustache and beard like you, Dad."

Today he's back to his bouncy self. I'm still sort of wondering what to do about him worrying that I'd think he was ugly, but we'll get over that, I suppose. The YP probably already is. Maybe. I hope. Almost as much as I hope he actually, you know, learned something. Though my breath, it is not being held.