Teddy Bear…Posted: June 20, 2011
First please, remember that I am anything but graceful. Second it’s important to know, that this is hereditary, and I got it from my Mother. Third, it’s good to know, that I seemed to have passed the clumsy gene on to my Mack.
Just before her third birthday, Mack and I were home alone together on a weekday when I actually had an entire day off of work. An ENTIRE day. That didn’t happen often back then, I was always working somewhere. Anyway, I was making dinner, doing dishes and laundry, she was rocking out in the living room dancing with her Teddy Bear, to of all things Teddy Bear, by Elvis Presley. This made for more rocking out then usual.
We did this a lot, rather than watch TV, I’d put on some music, and we’d dance around. She would sing, and show off, and dance.
This particular day, I was finishing up the dishes and dinner, she was dancing. Then I heard a crash, and crying. Actually, I take that back, not crying, screaming, bawling, hysteria. I came out of the kitchen to find her in a pile on the floor, but the front door. It was a heavy, wood door. One that didn’t really move on its own. She had tripped, and landed forehead first into the edge of it.
I picked her up, tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t be quiet. I set her on the couch with some TV, since she was done dancing at that point, and went back to the kitchen. I figured she’d stop crying eventually. She was just being a whiner.
About 20 minutes later, she was still bawling. I was starting to get annoyed with her. I mean really. She’s fine. I picked her up, sat her on my lap to give her some snuggles, brushed her bangs off her forehead, and that’s when I saw it.
She had a golf ball on her forehead. A freaking golf ball. A cut down the middle of the golf ball. The freaking thing wasn’t bleeding too much, but was deep.
I feel like a total asshole.
I panic, call my Mom. She comes to take us to the hospital.
I play 20 questions with all the medical staff about how my kid was injured dancing to Elvis with her bear, hoping like crazy that they don’t see what a jerky Momma I am that I didn’t notice the golf ball sized bump on my kids noggin, and call CPS on me and send me to the clink.
They finally decide that she tripped, and that she needs stitches, that it’s probably not neglect, or child abuse. If only I could have given them proof of that clumsy gene, all would have been right with the world.
At the local children’s hospital, they send someone in to talk to the kids about what they are about to do to them. A young guy comes in, starts talking to Mack, gives her some juice, a stuffed animal to hold onto, and explains how she’s going to get stitches. Exactly what the doctor will do, numb it up, wait a few minutes, put a couple stitches in, put a bandaid on it.
He asks her if she has any questions.
My darling almost three-year old says, “Um, no. You’re cute, wanna go on a date with my Momma?”
I died five kinds of death from embarrassment, my Mom died laughing. How many almost three-year olds go around trying to find dates for their Momma’s anyway?