Zen and the Art of Motherhood

Our little guy is one active kid.  Mind you -- ALL our kids are pretty energetic.  At least that's  the phrase that usually exits the lips of every adult that has spent any time with my broad.  But my youngest, he's decided to take it up a notch or two. 

This is actually quite ironic.  When he was born he was the quietest, sweetest, most content baby in the world.  He would stay in his little bassinet and just watch the commotion around him.  He'd smile and coo and take it all in.  He wasn't colicky, rarely fussed and was an all around pleasure..

With a huge grin and knowing sigh, I would sit rocking him and declare, "Ah, I finally got a calm one."

I really should have known better.  As soon as those six little words entered the universe, the forces that be decided it was yet again time to mess with my head.

The day he became mobile, the honeymoon was officially over.  And the world as we knew it ceased to be.

No gate could contain him and he could pick every safety lock known to man. In no time he was stacking chairs, scaling counter tops and leaving a path of destruction where ever he went.  It was during this time that our once plentiful babysitting offers mysteriously dried up.   They were replaced instead with the whispers of friend and passerby alike.

"He's the PRECOCIOUS one."

That's my boy.  The one I used to joke would be the first one to be taken to the emergency room after pulling some Jackass-like stunt. 

I really should know when to shut up. When will I learn that all those little "sayings" of mine always, always come to fruition.  And today was the day.

Luckily it wasn't so bad.  Especially given my history of hysteria at the sight of blood.  It was, however,  a little unnerving.

I was in the middle of such a nice nap when my oldest bolted into my room.

"MOM!  Mom! Come quick.  He's hurt."

This really is a cruel trick to play on a groggy Mom.  And of course my mind had thought of a hundred and one scenarios, none of them pretty, by the time I made it to the scene of the crime.

Turns out my little monkey was jumping on the bed, fell and bumped his head smack dab on the corner of the nightstand.

It didn't even bleed -- at first.  But when it did start, it wouldn't stop.  No gushing blood or anything, just a steady stream requiring multiple bandaid replacements.

After a few hours (yes, I am very slow in my old age), I realized this wasn't going to resolve on its own.  Luckily our pediatrician was game and no trip to the ER was required.  All the way there, I was dreading the inevitable sewing of the wound.  I knew the screams would not be pretty and lets face it, I'm a wimp when it comes to a crying three year old.

So imagine my surprise when I heard the prognosis was gluing.  Yep. A wonderful invention, they just dab a little on the site, squeezed it together and -- Presto -- it's good to go after a short 60 second wait.  Just like Super Glue.

So tonight I'm feeling pretty smug.  The experience wasn't half as bad as I thought.  But that's all I'm saying. I've learned my lesson and if asked I'm pleading the fifth.