Asher got run over by a table

The coffee table attacked Asher. He is running around the house-without slippers, and the coffee table gets in the way of his accidental slide into its corner. All I hear is the screaming, and I run to meet him underneath the table. Parents will live my horror when I tell them that my kid is lying on the floor, screaming, holding his face with both hands as blood pours from some unidentifiable source. Before I go on, I’ll skip to the last page. He’s fine...ish.

I stand him up and hold him as he watches the blood drip on to the floor. I don’t know which one of us is more freaked out about the horror-movie scene playing out. You can imagine, I’m sure, how long it took to establish the origin of the blood. We were operating in super slo-mo as I tracked the blood to the bridge of his nose. So close to the eyes and yet...

Gabriella is upstairs with absolutely no knowledge of what is happening. It’s a good thing. Bugs and blood-she don’t do. When we first moved to this leafy village, we were taking a leisurely walk down the street. A ginormous cicada landed on Asher’s head and covered-I kid you not-3/4 of his face. Rather than deal with the incredibly large insect on Asher’s face, I immediately turned to Gabriella and stopped her from completely traumatizing him. We were a few paces behind him, so he could not hear her quaking voice muttering, “Somebody get that off of him!! What IS that?!? Do something!!” With a wave of my hand, the bug was gone and Asher had no idea what had happened. Gabriella was in shock for the remainder of that day and will be the first to tell you that she is no friend to nature.

Luckily, I had a few minutes to slow down the bleeding and wipe the evidence of haemorrhage from the floor. I heard Gabriella starting down the stairs, and I called up, “We’re all fine down here, so we need you to be calm, Mommy!!” “What happened?” “We had a little spill, but we’re going to be fine, Mommy! Just please be calm because we’re all still a little, um, surprised.” The blood is still coming. Asher is still crying-mostly out of fear and the fact that he can see his blood on my sleeve. “That was quite a fall, Asher, and you’re being very brave. It’s ok.” Mommy arrived and did her best to feign calm. She took my cue and reassured Asher with the same measured tone I used albeit an octave higher than usual.

You know what’s really going through my mind? I’m thinking I haven’t showered yet today. Am I supposed to take him to the ER without taking a shower first? What would happen if I told Gabriella that I was just going to hop into the shower before we took our bleeding son to the ER. She'll slap me with her eyes and forever be disgusted by my existence IF she doesn’t leave me. But I can’t help think it. Only serious illness has ever kept me from my daily shower. I have bad hair, and I feel like some sort of crack addict delinquent without a shampoo and dry. I curse myself for falling into the trap of winter vacation as I put off bathing until mid-morning. I put the images of crack houses and the great unwashed out of my mind while I finally assess the damage.

It’s not so bad, really. Rather than a deep cut, it’s more like a scoop. I don’t know that stitches would help when the sides of the divot are so far apart. Maybe we don’t have to spend hours upon hours at the ER and subject our 5 year old to stitches in the face. Is it my greasy hair talking or my pediatrician father? Everyone who has a doctor for a parent knows that children of physicians get the worst care. No matter what kinds of illnesses or injuries we incurred, as long as our heads were attached to our necks by at least one thread, we were fine. As a result, I rarely ever go to the doctor and I dismiss most of the ailments of my own children. Thankfully, the hysterical nature of the Italian mother living in this house provides the perfect balance. We just couldn’t decide whether or not stitches were in order, but Gabriella did decide that she absolutely would not go to the hospital. She had been once before with Asher and rightfully felt it was my turn to suffer at the ER.

So the greasy haired daughter of a doctor whipped out the digital camera and sent photos to 4 doctor friends and asked for their opinion. Thanks to the 3 out of 4 doctors who recommended a butterfly bandage in lieu of a trip to the ER. Thanks to the 4th doctor, as well, for responding to us so quickly and whose opinion I do value but chose not to take that particular day.

So he might have a scar. Stitches would not have guaranteed otherwise. Maybe the ladies and lads will consider it sexy. Or maybe it will always be covered by the coke-bottle glasses he’ll probably have to wear eventually. Maybe and most likely it will not be the only scar he earns. I’d rather not think about it. I do know that I will never again put off my morning shower, and I’m going to get Asher some new slippers immediately. It’s a slippery world out there.