That was eight years ago. This evening Anthony was skipping across the dining room, tried to stop, and put his hand right through one of them.
I was cooking supper for the boys while Andrea was at the gym and I heard a crash and a cry. Not just an ow-ow-I-bonked-my-head kind of a cry but an ow-this-hurts-and-I'm-not-sure-why-and-I'm-BLEEDING-I'M-BLEEDING kind of cry and sure enough he'd opened up a couple of nasty looking gashes under his right forearm. I got him patched up a bit and had him put some pressure on the deeper of the two cuts and off we went to the prompt care, Paxton alternately scared because his big brother is crying and mad because supper is going to be delayed. Andrea came and took Kenrick and Paxton home and I sat with Anthony in the waiting room, bloody rag on his arm, where he asked repeatedly if he was going to have to get stitches and stated soberly, "At least I didn't break my arm."
A couple of hours later, after x-rays, swabs, shots, probing, prodding, cleaning, fishhooks, monofilament, lollipops, stickers and band-aids, we said goodbye to the nurses and took our seventeen stitches home to show proudly to Mommy and big brother. "This is fun!", exclaimed Anthony halfway through the visit. Sorry little buddy, this isn't my idea of fun.
Witness the wreckage:
Blood on the shirt? Check. Massive bandage? Check. Broken window? Check. Lollipop? Is this how we reward disaster? Check. Oh, and notice the second missing tooth? It fell out two days after the first. Not related to the window incident, but thought I'd throw it in anyway.
So, all is well again. Except for the window that I'm going to have to replace...
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