Dr: Eak-spay ig-pay atin-lay? Me: (with a questioning look and my eyebrows raised) Es-yay? Dr: Aples-stay but no ot-shay. Doesn’t urt-hay as much. Me: Ight-ray.After our Pig Latin conversation, he prepared my baby’s head with iodine in order to prevent any infection. And that baby of mine didn’t like that at all. He got mad and cried all at the same time. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when the doctor squeezed his wound together followed by putting staples in his precious skin was. Holy sweet molasses, the child was not thrilled. He was beside himself and gazed at me as if to say, “What is wrong with you, woman, letting him hurt me like that?” If only he knew that it hurt me so much more. That watching those metal pieces being thrust into his precious little head was almost more than this momma could take. That I’d have taken them for him if I could have. But I couldn’t. Putting those staples in my head wouldn’t have healed his and I knew that. He had to go through that to get better. So, while my baby doesn’t have cancer or a chronic illness, he did get his first “staples”. And I know it’ll be a story I tell for years to come just to hear people laugh when I tell them he screamed, “I will never come see that doctor again!” I know this won’t even matter a month from now. But it mattered today.
They were having the time of their lives. And by “they” I mean my 10-year old and my 5-year old. They have such a love/hate relationship, which I know is typical for most siblings. I want them to get along, be best friends and defend each other till they day they die. So, you can understand why I let them use a flattened, cardboard box for a sled on our stairs. Because they were laughing and having so much fun. And when they are laughing and having so much fun, I let them do just about anything. I was about to head out to church, followed by a dinner afterward, so I was in my bathroom finishing up my hair with my Chi flat iron. (Because what woman doesn’t love her Chi flat iron?) (Can I get a witness?) That’s when I heard it. The scream of all screams. I took off in a superhero sort of motion, rounded the corner in a Ninja-like way with my feet plastered across the walls and slid the rest of the way along our hardwood floors only to find my youngest, my baby boy, my little Sether Joe jumping up and down holding the side of his head. “Please don’t let it be cut open, please don’t let it be cut open, please don’t let it be cut open,” I began to plead silently with God. Upon removing his dirty-finger nailed hand, I saw the cut. The wound was wide open with blood oozing down the side of his face. I tried not to panic outwardly but inwardly? Inwardly I was freaking out because there was this substance flowing down the side of my child’s skull that is meant to be flowing through his veins. I might have appeared a tad bit flustered but panicked? No ma’am. Not this chica. I remained calm and eventually called the After Hours Clinic to see if they did, dare I say it, stitches. They did. Whew. That meant a $30 co-pay and not an exorbitant amount of money for an ER visit. What? I am guessing that the Swine Flu cases in Oklahoma county have decreased significantly because the waiting room was absolutely empty. And that happened to come in handy as I walked right on through to the back with my five-year old in my arms. When the medical professionals saw us, the questions started coming. I wondered if they would call Child Protective Services on me because of my negligence as the caregiver of my children. Thankfully, I wasn’t the first mother of boys who brought in a child with a gash on his noggin. After giving the nurse the information she asked for, the doctor walked in. He squeezed my baby’s head and then said the strangest thing to me: