We went to Burlington for the weekend—some of Ava’s friends were competing in a skating competition, and she had asked if we could go. She had learned that it involved a hotel with a pool, and that was hard to resist. Having some things to do in Burlington, and needing the break, I decided to go. It was intended to be a one-night affair—go on Friday, swim, get room service, sleep, go to the competition, do a little shopping, and go home. As of Saturday AM, all was going according to plan. The girl that we had gone to see had won her compulsory moves the night before, a huge deal, since she was 6 and her competitors were 10 and 11, and we were all very proud of her. Moreover, it was also a slap in the face to some of the not so nice individuals that are involved with our skating club who don’t like her coach and have taken great pleasure in this little girl’s losses in the past. More on that in another post, but all I can say is that it amazes me that some parents and coaches can be so preoccupied with themselves that they take every opportunity to puff themselves up, even if it is at the expense of a 6-year-old’s disappointment. And I am not exaggerating. I know a parent who gleefully exclaimed that this little girl ‘got her clock cleaned’ at a competition. HELLO??????????? Since when is it acceptable for an adult to be that competitive with a small child? Anyway, the win was a great one, and Ava was completely thrilled for her. And the rest of the competition was fun to watch—we knew many of the little girls, and the structure of the competition for the lower levels is such that there are never more than 4 girls competing, so nearly everyone gets something. As we were leaving the arena, I noticed that it was raining slightly. When I got to the car, it was covered in ice. Hmmmm. Perhaps we’ll stay another night? No big deal, the kids would be excited, and we could do more swimming, and spend more time at the toy store. So we went home, went swimming, got lunch, and headed out to the grocery store (I could not handle another $40 hamburger). On the way, my ice scraper AND my windshield wipers broke, so after I turned right over a curb into the parking lot of a strip mall, I found what I was looking for: the auto parts store. And the sign said “free wiper installation today.” Right on. So, 2 new wipers and one ergonomically engineered scraper later, we went to the grocery store, got supplies, and headed to the toy store.

Kid’s Town is a GREAT toy/kid gear store. It has everything, and has lots of stuff out for the kids to play with. We needed a booster seat for Ava and an umbrella stroller for both, and we secured those, then I let them wander around, perusing the goodies. Ava had to go potty, so we all trekked to the bathroom, where I neglected to lock the door (it never occurs to me when I am not the one going), and just as we were finishing a man poked in, quickly retreated and apologized when we came out. I told him not to worry, and then turned to chase the kids. Carter started running back to the train table where he had just started playing when Ava’s bladder interrupted him, and I called for him to slow down. Ava was behind me, and yelled “mom! Look!” I paused, turned to look over my shoulder, and Ava was holding a wolf puppet—I had apparently knocked it off as I was chasing Carter. I asked her to put it back for me, then turned back around only to see Carter scuff his foot on the carpet and pitch forward. From my position, I could see that he had hit the table, and I figured he had gotten a bump. I ran to him, and when I got there, the blood was everywhere. Shit. I quickly found the source, a gaping hole in his forehead. But even then, I had the composure to note within a nanosecond that 1. It needed stitches and 2. It was a clean, straight slice, which was good. I held him and people started shoving tissues and towels at me, and then the conundrum I was in struck me: how would I get him to the hospital without allowing this thing to bleed profusely? An employee said that she would get me an ambulance. Even though I needed it, I thought “Oh my god! An ambulance? For stitches? And how in the world would I ever get back to my car???” Then, that man that I told you about? The one that poked in on us in the bathroom? He said “My wife and I can drive you to the hospital. We have a car—one of us can drive your car, and the other will drive out car.” And this person drove my car while I sat in the back, holding onto Carter’s head. While we were still in the store, many many people kept saying “Mom, you are staying so calm—you are so composed—etc. “ And I was thinking “I AM IN SHOCK!” -- I was, but I also tend to react this way, as I think most moms do. I had to be calm—what good would flipping out do? I was also completely silent when I was in labor—it is just what I do. Fortunately it is a good reaction to have. (and having a surgeon for a father also helps—I am relatively familiar with trauma, and it does not create a panic in me). Ava was a superstar—she just stood by and did what she was told to do. The only hard part was getting her to relinquish the 2 stuffed horses that she had picked out for herself and Carter. Another employee told her that they would set them aside for her. And she let them go.

Halfway there, Carter stopped crying. He looked at me and said “mommy, I’m better now. Not go to doctor, please.” I smiled and said that we still had to go, there were some things that the doctor had to look at.

We arrived at the ER, and the front desk person said “here to be seen? Triage room 2.” And we were triaged immediately, and sent to room 30. ROOM 30! We live in a town where there are 5 rooms in the ER. This was one LARGE emergency room. It is a level-1 trauma center, so I figured at least they do a lot of stitching. On the other hand, it occurred to me that this might mean we were not exactly priority patients. Nevertheless, we were seen by the nurse pretty rapidly. I mentioned that Carter was ‘tooting’ and could I go get my diaper bag, because, well, he might need to go. I think that helped move our treatment along. The nurse said that someone would see him pretty quickly. And someone did come in. He took one look at it and looked at me and said “we need to fix this.” It was not meant as new information, but more like, “yes, you’re right, he does need stitches.” He carefully explained everything that would happen, and this helped to get Ava to stop asking if Carter was going to have to be in the papoose (she knew the story of my sister and her stitches at 4 ½ years—the papoose was very problematic for Michaela, to put it mildly). They applied lidocaine to a piece of gauze, then put that in the wound, then taped it, and let us watch TV for 20 minutes. Level 1-trauma centers have cable TV. This is a good thing, but there was literally nothing on. Finally, SpongeBob came on. Neither child has ever seen SpongeBob, and I don’t think they even know who he is, despite the ubiquitous-ness of that character, and I was not exactly thrilled about it, but we were grateful for what we had. Both of them sat and stared at this show with an expression of complete confusion. At one point, without turning her head, Ava said “mommy? What’s going on in this show?” Fortunately, there was enough comic relief in the form of belching and crashing that both kids were moderately entertained, but I am fairly certain neither child felt any compulsion to watch it again. I actually was the one that laughed the most. After a bit, they reapplied the lidocaine, then once more, and finally the PA came in to sew him up. He had me lie next to Carter, on my side, drape my left leg over Carter’s legs and hold both of his arms with my left arm—my right arm was under his neck. Basically, I had Carter in a bear hug, which was brilliant—this is how Carter falls asleep every night. He warned me that Carter would struggle and scream, and that I had to be prepared to restrain him. Then up up up we went on the table, and he draped Carter so that he could still see—with a clever triangular folding of surgical towels. Carter did not move, and he did not make a sound. Then he washed the wound with betadine, then rinsed it. Still, nothing from Carter. Just some deep breaths (my little yogi). Then he started to sew. No struggle. No scream. Not a sound. Just a breathing. Towards the end, I think it hurt, because he whimpered and cringed and his mouth crumpled, but all he did was make that huhuhuhhuhuhuhu sound that you make after crying hard. He exhaled, and made a teeny tiny high pitched sound. And that was it. The PA tied off, took off the drapes, and put bacitracin and a bandaid on him. And we were finished.

The nurse and the PA walked out of the room, incredulous. They were still talking about him to all the other staff when we were leaving. “you would not believe how good this kid was, etc etc.” Ava put it best. She said “Mom! Carter was amazing! We need to get him a present! I know that I would not have been that quiet….I would have been SCREAMING my head off!” I laughed and said, yes, Ava, I think you are right. Ava is a kid that will scream for an hour because her throat hurts and she is ANGRY that her throat hurts. Never mind that she is making it worse. She is a total screamer, and will not stop. It is excruciating.

Carter has only complained once, and that was because he was not allowed to go swimming. We returned home on Sunday, to a landscape ravaged by the ice-storm. In retrospect, it was pretty darn lucky that we were in a hotel, which was pretty much a fortress with a generator. A chunk of ice destroyed one of our porch windows, and frankly, had he hurt himself here, I would not have had someone to drive us to the hospital, and given the fact that there was a travel ban in our county, it sounds as if it would have been a very difficult ride. Three days later, the wound is remarkably better looking. Even yesterday it was still red and swollen. Today, you can see that when the stitches are out, it will just be a thin line. It is amazing how quickly kids heal.

Ava went with me to the drug store, and she picked out a stuffed golden retriever puppy for him. He immediately named it Jamie, which was so great, because that means that he has been listening closely to the stories that I tell Ava about my childhood dog, Jamie, the Golden Retriever.

They may argue and get into tussles, but when it comes down to it, they care so much about one another. Before we got to the hospital, Ava asked 5 times, in a very worried voice, if he would be ok. This scared her, and she was really worried about him. If anything good came of this, it was the confirmation of their connection.