What Goes Up Must Come Down, Part II

Or the further adventures of WeeBee in the ER...

Yesterday evening, WeeBee learned that there is a reason that Mommy tells him not to run in the vestibule of our church.  Bad things happen when you don't listen to Mommy.  Like tripping over your own feet and faceplanting into a bench, and bashing up your nose so you're covered in blood and screaming at the top of your lungs just as a couple hundred people are leaving Mass to go to the Living Nativity and Christmas Tree lighting.

The good news is I'm never going to have any trouble getting documentation that I am a practicing Catholic at that parish.  Like I said, a couple hundred people now know me as "that mother with the screaming bloody kid."

(Thank you to the kind people who held Baby Lowly and gave her cookies and juice while I tried to calm down my hysterical son.  And to the lovely woman whose name I didn't actually catch who offered WeeBee one of her kid's toys, and walked me to the car.  And to everyone who got me towels and ice, and the priest who opened up one of the side rooms so I could sit with WeeBee without a small mob gawking at him.)

Numerous people offered to call an ambulance, but I figured that was a bit excessive (thank you for the thought, though!)  I belong to the "don't call an ambulance unless your bleeding, broken, or 90% dead" school.  And if you're bleeding, half your blood had better be on the floor, and if your broken, there had better be a bone sticking out somewhere.  WeeBee was so worked up that an ambulance would have done more harm than good at that point.

Eventually he calmed down enough that we were able to make a run for the car.  After some mac & cheese and an episode of Octonauts, all was right with the world.  Aside from the blood that he refused to let me wipe off his face, and his swollen nose.  Unfortunately my go-to medical experts (my sister and husband) were out of state, and had to make do with text messages and broken cell phone calls for consulting.  (Curse your cruddy Jersey Shore service, Sprint!)  I really didn't want to take him in to the ER (we really need more urgent care centers in this part of the world) but I also didn't want to be some sort of negligent parent who left their son with a broken nose.  Or have him ranting about it every time he wants to make a point when he's 13.  I'm sure there will be enough things for him to blame me for, without giving him ammunition.

So I put Lowly in her pjs, told WeeBee we were going to get him medicine, and went for a little ride to the hospital.  Thankfully, we got there at the perfect time on a Saturday night - right after all the sports injuries had left, but before the drunken hipster invasion.  I expected WeeBee to throw a fit as soon as he realized it was basically a glorified doctor's office, but he was intrigued.  And his nurse fell in love with him when he saw the stretcher and said, "But Momma, I have to take my shoes off first!  They are so dirty!"

Surprisingly, the child who throws a fit at the doctor's over having his height measured hopped right out of the stroller.  He stayed still for 3 out of the 4 x-rays.  He let me wipe off some of the blood, and even shared his picture book with Lowly.  And within an hour and a half we were out of there, with a badly bruised but apparently unbroken nose.

What can I say, my family has hard heads.  Poor survival instincts, but hard heads.