bad butter fingers
conspire to maim innocents
It is hard for us to get going in the mornings. I'm running on no sleep, and when I wake up I'm usually well behind on my pumping schedule, Ike-a-saurus is starving, the wee-er one is starving, I am desperate for a shower to wake me up, etc. (Thank goodness my husband gets the wee one off to school!)
So when we have to actually get out of the house, things get pretty frantic, pretty quickly.
This morning, we had a well check for the wee-er one at 9:30. When I made the appointment I thought that seemed plenty late in the morning – past rush hour, even.
Just by the skin of our teeth we managed to be in the garage trying to get in the car at 9:04. We live 20 minutes from the doctor – in no traffic. It was going to be close.
That was when I dropped my water bottle on Ike's face. Mm-hmm. A full bottle of good ol' Ozarka, WHACK, square between the eyes.
He was in his car seat, which I had set on the garage floor while I was getting the wee-er one in the car. As I juggled her and the diaper bag and my other bag (which I hesitate to call a purse – it's more of a diaper bag appendix), the water bottle slipped from my hand and made a sickening thwap sound. At first I thought we got really lucky and it had just hit the side of the carseat. There was that millisecond of silence that happens right after something bad has occurred. That one millisecond where you think everything might be OK. Everything is silent, the world stops, and you think, whew, what I fear just happened maybe didn't happen.
But then Ike-a-saurus screwed up his face into a purple ball of sheer WTF. And then he screamed. Oh, how he screamed.
You know when you go to a restaurant like the Cracker Barrel and there are those games on the table? Games meant to challenge your mind, take up a lot of time, frustrate you, and ultimately get tossed through an open window? Can you remove the washer from this bent up railroad spike? No? Too bad for you! And it's still another 30 minutes until your grits arrive! Sucker! Well, the people who invented those games also invented the straps on Ike-a-saurus' car seat. It takes like 20 minutes and an engineering degree to get him strapped in. Then it takes another 20 minutes and a reverse engineering degree to get him out. And you don't get rewarded with a bowl of grits when you're done.
So he was screaming, and I had to rustle around in my brain to find my Car Seat Reverse Engineering Degree to unstrap him so that I could then rustle up my mama MD to check him for signs of blunt trauma and/or brain damage. Of course, while I am doing this, the wee-er one is taking off her shoes and her pants and eating raisins off the floor of the car.
I finally got her strapped in, deemed Ike possibly undamaged, spent 20 minutes getting him strapped back into his
torture device car seat and we were finally driving down the street.
That was when we were met with the longest line of traffic I have ever seen. People were driving across the blowing two-foot tall chaff in the wide highway median to get away from this traffic beast. I thought about it, but then had visions of being ticketed while a tow truck driver asked why my baby's forehead has a water bottle shaped bruise on it.
So we sat in traffic. I choked back tears of "WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE SO HARD" and called my superstar friend to see if she could use her mad skillz to find out what the fuck was going on. All traffic reports said everything was clear. Of course they did. She consoled me. We hung up. I called the doctor's office to tell them we were going to be ridiculously late.
Finally, we made it. The doctor gave a free looksee at Ike's face and proclaimed all was well. (At least you didn't drop him head first on concrete, he said laughing. The day isn't over yet, I replied cheerfully.) He poked at the wee-er one, said she is a bit skinny for her age, and then he was off. One MMR and Hep A shot later, we were back in the car. This time, the wee-er one was screaming her head off.
After tylenol, motrin, an ice pack, a bribe of any baby doll she wants, a Frosty, some french fries, uninterrupted Elmo watching, and a nap, she is feeling much better. Me? I am tired.
"It's an ax-ee-net," the wee-er one says now, pointing at the red mark on Ike-a-saurus' head.
"A what?" I ask.
"An ax-ee-net on his head. Wif da water."
"Yes," I agree. "It was an accident."
"It fweeks me out," she confirms.
"It freaks me out, too," I say.
This whole day. Freaking me out.