Disclaimer: He’s absolutely fine, phew.
Things I am not cut out for:
The split second after seeing my son whack his head into the sharp corner of a kitchen counter.
The sound it made, which I keep hearing long since it happened.
His screams as the deep cut in his eyebrow bled and he cried and cried in my arms.
The sick feeling I get when I think about if it had been a few centimetres lower.
The sight of my child lying on the blue hospital bed, looking up at the lights in A&E, as the kind nurse gently cleaned and glued the cut. I distracted him by reciting all the Thomas engines, and promising him a new one next week. At that point, I’d have promised him all the engines on Sodor.
Things I may not be cut out for, but luckily for me, these lovely people are:
My first aid trained sister-in-law, who took immediate charge of the situation, cleaning him up and getting ice whilst I held him tight and tried not to bawl too.
My brother, who was calm and laid-back and practical, everything I was not as we worked out what to do.
The pharmacist in Sainsbury’s, who confirmed yes he needs to be looked at, better safe than sorry, whilst my head was a blur of What If He’s Concussed/Scarred For Life/Am I Massively Overreacting/Oh But Look At His Poorly Cut/Ooh I Like that Picnic Blanket No This Is Not The Time To Shop.
My parents, who drove us to A&E and stayed with us for two hours and looked after us and helped keep Z entertained.
The Senior Nurse, Joan, who made everything okay and reassured me and put Z so at ease.
My husband, not with us this weekend, who reminded me that this is no doubt the first of many minor accidents. Argh!
This in the same week that my husband was knocked off his bike – thank goodness he’s fine too. Could everyone stop having accidents now please? My worry lines are going through the roof.
Later, and beaming with pride after being given not one, but two stickers for being so good, Zach was smiling and chatty as we left the hospital. I gave in to the stress of it all and cried, quietly observing to my dad the sheer terror that it must be to have a child in hospital, seriously ill.
Something Z has started saying a lot recently is ‘I love you.’ He often follows it up immediately with ‘You are a poo-poo Mummy!’ or ‘But I’m not your friend anymore’ or ‘Mummy I’m putting you in the bin!’ What can you do? Kids are strange.
But tonight as we drove home, he held my hand and simply said ‘Mummy I love you so much.’ Sentimental as I am, another time this may have brought a tear to my eye. But I just smiled and said it back. Times a gazillion. Because earlier there really had been something to cry about.
And even though What If What If What If keeps circling my thoughts, I’m going to keep that at bay and concentrate on the fact Z and H are both absolutely fine, we are lucky, and I need to lie down.