I can’t remember why Brandt was mad, but here’s the conversation:
Brandt: I’m mad at you mom!
Me: It’s dinner time. Come eat.
Brandt: I’m NOT eating!
Me: Fine. Come watch the rest of us eat, because it’s dinnertime and you will sit with us.
Brandt: [arms crossed, sending daggers my way, stomps to the table] I’m NOT . . .
Then he saw what was on his plate. He threw me a furious look and tried again.
Brandt: I’m ONLY eating my fish, and my broccoli, and drinking my drink. That’s ALL I’m eating!
Me: Okay, Brandt. You win. You just eat that.
[I swear that’s my mantra these days–in more ways than one, but I digress.] That’s what I yelled right before the BOOM! Then came the crying.
“London pushed me!” Brandt was on the floor wailing and pointing back toward the room. London was hiding.
I picked up the one and started scolding the other. Then I saw it.
Blood POURING down Brandt’s face. I swooned. A moment of shock. I forced myself to think past the blood dripping on the carpet. And I admit it, I panicked. The word ‘hyperventilate’ comes to mind.
I sent an accusing look at London (I know, I know, bad parenting, but in the moment . . . well, yeah), and rushed Brandt to the bathroom. I pressed a wad of toilet paper on the faucet of blood. “Hold this and don’t move!” I ordered.
I grabbed my phone book and called my good friend: “So, Brandt-split-his-head-open,-and-I-need-to-take-him-to-get-stitched.-Somewhere.-I-don’t-know-where-yet,-but-could-you . . . ” I think I said it all in one breath.
Can I just say, thank goodness for good friends! She helped me find the address for the hospital, and kept the other two so I could keep my sanity.
To sum up, Brandt got seven stitches . . . and I’m sure a scar to match his other one. He was a brave little boy who didn’t wiggle, and didn’t cry at all while the doctor worked. The doctor was in awe: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a child sit so still for stitches before.”
Yup, this is my child who I had to carry screaming out of the store because he COULDN’T get a flu shot.
And now, I have finally joined the rank and file of true parents, having dealt with my first trip to the emergency room.
P.S. Dana, I didn’t think about taking a ‘Before’ picture till it was too late. Rats.
Yesterday was call (i.e. Rick worked all night). While London was at school, we had a full day. A playdate, gymnastics, and even a run to the toystore because Razors were on sale. (Brandt is now the proud new owner of his own scooter!)
What a great mom, huh? It’s not birthday or Christmas or any other holiday, but just because I know Brandt will enjoy it. So in gratitude, he should be happy boy with no complaints all day. Right? Yes, right.
After another playdate (when London got home), it was time to get down to work. London has piano practice and reading before dinner. Lucky Brandt gets to play.
London sits at the piano, but does Brandt not get the “lucky” part?
Me: Brandt, you need to let London practice.
Brandt: No! I’m going to play!
Me: Brandt, please get off the piano bench so your brother can pratice.
Brandt: No! Tinga! Pinga! Pinga! Bing! Bang! Bop! [that’s meant to represent his playing . . . hey! you try and make piano sounds with words, then come back and appreciate my genius.] 😉
London: I don’t need any help, Brandt!
Me: Brandt, please play somewhere else.
I physically remove Brandt from the piano bench and set him on the couch.
Brandt: That’s no fair! You made me mad, mom!!! And I won’t play anywhere else!@!!! [if only you could hear the intensity in his voice. There’s just no way to translate that into words]
And he promptly ran across the room and booted me in the leg.
I picked him up, marched him to his room and deposited him in his bed. Then I plopped in front of the computer and stared at the screen. My ire was pulsing WAY too fast to try talking to anyone else.
I mean, 1) Where did he learn that!? Because I certainly have never kicked him.
2) How could he kick me? Me?! His own mother who suffered 9, count them, 9 months of a miserable pregnancy, 4 hours of labor, innumberable sleepless nights, not to mention the extra weight I still bear around my center.
And 3) I bought him a stinkin’ scooter today!!! Isn’t that like having a get-out-of-temper-tantrums free card? Well it should be.
So there I am, glowering at the computer screen, when London says, “Mom! Look at that beautiful sunset! Come watch it with me!”
Well how can you refuse that? You can’t. So we stood and watched the sun setting.
London: I just love watching the sky turn yellow and orange. And look at the line of cloud, mom. Isn’t that just SO cool?
Me: Very cool, London.
London [snuggling in close]: It doesn’t get any more better than watching the sun set with your mama, does it?
Me: No, kiddo. It doesn’t.
How do kids know how to say just the right thing sometimes? What a little cutie. And suddenly the event that left me fuming was connected to this other amazingly sweet moment. The kind you treasure as a mom. The kind that makes all those other not-so-nice moments worth it. The kind you never forget.
London: Can we do this again some time, mama?
I hope so, kiddo. I certainly hope so.