I realized something early on in this budding year-o-potential. Blogging is a sort of therapy for me. This happens in the height of a moment where I immediately start mentally blogging in the middle of a situation. Like on New Years Day as I'm driving to Urgent Care. I could freak out. I could. It would be easy. But instead, I use that energy to compose blogs. Witty banter with myself. Therapy or en route to crazy town. You pick.
Lemme back up. Eliot and I were heading out to catch a movie before dinner. He and Daisy were in our room, Daisy on the bed. Daisy jumped over the end of the bed at the same time Eliot started to run out of the room. Daisy's body weight slammed E into the edge of the door, splitting his forehead open and causing a nosebleed.
Eliot was obviously upset (read: total freak out) and kept saying, "Daisy's very mean to me." Once the horror-movie-amount-of-bloodshed from his guatemelon was a bit settled and my friend Heather came in to help, I prepared for our trip to the Urgent Care. Similar to this post, mom-mode came over me like a super power.
Urgent Care, I'd like to re-introduce myself. I. am. mom.
We've gone once before when Eliot had a crazy fever on a Saturday night last January. It was 100% awful. We waited for nearly 900 years, over dinner time with a hungry CRANKY 2 year old with little there to distract him. EGAD, the nightmare. We hadn't given him anything for the fever so they could get an accurate reading. Once that happened they gave us off-brand Motrin and THEN CHARGED US $30 FOR 5ML. There were words.
I'm no rookie, you Urgentcare place of terror, I've danced your dance before.
Within a few minutes my purse was full of all things close to Eliot's heart (read: 12 different Lightening McQueens), his tag pen + books, a full bottle of tylenol and some special treats. We even swung through a McD's drive-through where Eliot told me he broke his head and needed chocolate milk. (Dairy, oh beloved dairy)
I walked into that waiting room locked and loaded.
Our experience this time around was the opposite of last time. The place was fairy empty, the staff was great and the apparently newest member of Fight Club? HE. WAS. AMAZING. His stegoMohrus forehead needed 5 stitches. 5 stitches. 5 stitches and not one tear. And, no, the wound is not in the shape of a lightening bolt.
After being strapped to a board, having a nauseously large needle placed directly into his gaping gash and then sewn together, the Chocolate Chip grasped his happy meal toy and get this...said 'thank you' to the doctor.
Puh-lease. Who is this child?