"We've had a little accident. (The Boy) fell into a table and he's got a pretty nasty cut on his eyelid. It might need stitches. His nose is bruised, too."
When the director said he fell into the table, I have to admit I giggled a little. The Boy gets the clumsy honest enough. I'm lucky to be able to walk and breathe at the same time. Also, and I'm just as shocked by this as anyone who knows me, I don't panic when daycare calls. I tend to be calm and sometimes even dismissive of the problem, maybe because I'm not looking at a bleeding, crying kid, maybe because I know they have to be extra careful so a parent won't sue them. So, I called the husband and the boss and went to pick The Boy up, but wasn't completely sold on the idea of taking him to the emergency room.
Then I saw The Boy. He was sitting in a chair in the teacher's lounge, eating pizza and chatting away. But the cut on the corner of his eyelid was swollen and bruised. Thinking I didn't want to be responsible for scarring my kid for life, giving him a weird lazy eye or something, I reassured the daycare ladies -- who all were more scared than my little guy, who just wanted his pizza -- and headed straight to the ER.
And we waited for an hour, giving me plenty of time to second-guess myself.
The Boy spent the time playing with my bracelets, waving hi and bye to people, rifling through my datebook and playing peekaboo behind a chair while I tried to remember social security numbers for the billing lady. When the doctor got to us, he looked at The Boy's eye for 30 seconds and told me the cut wasn't really in need of stitches and they'd probably traumatize the kiddo more than the accident. Clean it with soap and water. We didn't even get a Snoopy Band-aid. A $100 co-pay later, we were released to the world.
Whatever. I didn't want to write about swine flu this afternoon anyway.