Scarface

Yesterday, I got a somewhat frantic phone call at work from Sal, who was letting me know that Michael had an 'accident'. I came home to find him calm, with a bloody hand by his side and another bloody hand attached to his face. Add to his appearance the sound of Enzo screaming in hunger somewhere in the house, and it was right out of an 80's horror movie: Attack of the Five-Year Old Serial Killer. Apparently, Michael was running on the wood floor in socks, carrying his latest favorite car, which is actually a racing boat that he was pretending was a spaceship (this is the part where you, the Reader, mumbles something about bad parenting). He slipped, fell and the boat pierced the flesh on his cheek, opening up a deep 1/4" long cut. After that, according to Sal, it was a blur of blood, crying and screaming. And Michael was upset too (ba-dum-bum).

So we gathered ourselves and headed to the hospital, where, in the waiting room, I decided that it might be best to be honest with Michael, and try not to deceive him regarding what might have to be done. So I told him that sometimes, the doctors have to sew up a cut, just like mom does when she sews that scene she's been working on for 12 years. Big mistake. When we did get to see a nurse, she asked him to step on the scale, to which he replied, "But I don't want stitches!". She asked to take his blood pressure, to which he replied, "But I don't want stitches!". She asked to put a band-aid on...well, you get the idea.

Luckily, we were able to get away with simply 'gluing' the cut together, which was painless, save for the anxiety (I realized later that I could have saved myself the copay by making a trip to Rite-Aid and gluing the damn thing myself). The nurse practitioner said there might be a small scar, but I see it as an opportunity for Michael to impress future babes by retelling the story of how he fought off three bears with only a Swiss Army knife and pack of Double-Mint gum.

I eased the pain by buying him a wind-up motorcycle (I am so the softy), and by evening, all was right in the world again. The incident is a fitting end to the Week From Hell. Sally is sick, and, as hard as she tried, did not have the energy to go all day with the kids, so I came home early a couple of days. This wouldn't be a problem usually, but work is especially busy right now, so it was tough to get away. Since we share everything (except dairy products), Sal shared her sickness with me, and now I'm feeling pretty lousy. And as always happens when you're sick and stressed, everything seems to be worse than it is. The weekend will be well-received.

Edit: Michael made my day when, this morning, after he'd given me a goodbye hug, without provocation, he grabbed me by the cheeks, looked me in the eye, and said, 'Thanks for the toy, Dad.'

The damage.


The reward.


Life returns to normal.