Oh, Horrors

I fell apart, last year, when Elena cut her forehead at my parents house, but at least there were plenty of adults around to help. Today, Joseph found and broke a light bulb, slicing up his finger. Jonathan was at work, so we have one crying mother, one screaming toddler, and one curious but delightfully obedient three-year-old. There was blood everywhere, though--all over him, all over me--and I couldn't get it to stop. No matter how long I covered it up and put pressure on it, as soon as I let go he'd bend his finger and it'd start bleeding again. This meant 1) I couldn't put him down, 2) I couldn't clean up the glass, and 3) no one could go upstairs. After a good 45 minutes, a bloody band-aid that never even got on his finger, and phone calls to my husband, my mother, and three members of the Relief Society presidency we managed to get everyone calmed down; Joseph's finger wrapped up and coagulated; the front hallway swept, vacuumed and mopped; and someone came to check if stitches were needed, and let me cry on her shoulder. Joseph's asleep, right now. We're both recovering fairly well.

I hate the total helplessness of seeing my baby hurt. If it were someone else's kid, I'd have them cleaned up, bandaged and sent on their way in a heartbeat. I've even done it a few times. It's different when it's your child, though. I'm not sure what the difference is, but there is one. And don't ask how he got a light bulb. The lest time I changed a light bulb was months ago, and I'm positive I threw all the old ones out (meaning, the trash bag they got stuffed in went to the dumpster). It just goes to show you how good kids are at finding the most dangerous thing in the house.