The Stitches

Yesterday we went to eat at Margaretville with Starling's parents. They flew in for 10 days and Les, Starling's dad, went to USM with Jimmy Buffet, so we wanted to show him the place. (Okay. Truthfully, we were craving their nachos). The plastic surgeon's office (where Bry had to get stitches) is a few doors down. We needed to check in with the doc to make sure Bry's head was healing appropriately. After we ate, we started walking. There are signs on the sidewalk. Little advertisement signs beckoning people into stores to get jewelry, purses, and tattoos. Well. No. Not little signs. Massive, 'you can't miss me', signs.

Brighton ran SMACK into one. It was not a delicate greeting. It was a slam his face, fall flat on his butt, stare at the sign with little cartoon birdies flying over his head in a halo, smash. (Irony being we were going to see if he could get the stitches out of his face. Sucky thing- I didn't get it on video). While Bry and Starling were in the back of the doctor's office  talking to a nurse, I had the joyous responsibility of keeping Boeing occupied in the adorable cereal box sized waiting area. We played with the "jelly fish" on the desk. (That's kind of what breast implants look like, right)?

When we LEFT the office (with stitches still in), Bry ran into the SAME sign AGAIN. That's when I realized... he has some of his mama in him.

But why did he need stitches in the first place? Well... some kids are just born more accident prone than others. Some kids just have crappy parents. Apparently... Bry got dealt both hands, bless his heart.

Brookie and Bry got new boogie boards for their birthdays. (Boeing calls them skateboards. The other two kids call them surf boards. Both names implicate STANDING on the board = correct usage ). That's problem number one.

I told the kids (Brooke and Bry) to give water to our pup and kitty. Boeing insisted on helping. That's problem number two.

Boeing's enormous cup of water never made it to the water bowl. It dumped out all over the tile in the living room. The tile is slick like glass. That's a combo problem number 3.

Me. Problem number 4.

Starling. Problem number 5.

"Boeing! Seriously? The floor JUST got mopped! Water is everywhere." I almost slid down and busted my butt, which, like all normal people, gave me a great idea.

"Hey! Bring your boogie boards! This is going to be AWESOME!"

I demonstrated how to run and JUMP on the boogie board. I zoomed all the way through the living room and out the door. "It's exactly like a slipping slide." (Except not. You might die).

"COOL, MOM! We wanna try!!!"

Usually there is one responsible parent in a relationship. This would have been the time when that parent, the "bad cop" or parent with "common sense" or "rational/sane" parent would have intervened and shut down the party. BUT, it was just Starling.

"That's all you got? You have to get more momentum than that!"   

The kids increased speed, slid farther.

"Weak sauce!" He taunted.

After 15 minutes or so, once we had solidified the proper form and speed for complete and total disaster, we left our kids to enjoy their new game.

About 15 or 20 more minutes passed and in runs Brookie, "Bry is bleeding. Seriously. He is! He really is bleeding. Seriously. For real." I heard no screaming and crying and bleeding is a common occurrence in our house, so I wasn't too alarmed. (Although, he could have been unconscious somewhere. But Brooklyn would have told me. Four to five times).

After I finally said, "OKAY, Brooklyn. I heard you. Bry is bleeding," Bry walked into my room. He didn't look too worried or too hurt. He just had blood draining down his face like red syrup. He, of course, wiped it like he would wipe sweat, and then touched me. And my computer desk. And anything else that could hold a bloody hand print.

"Mo-om. I'm bleeding," he half whined, obviously out of annoyance that he had to stop riding his boogie board because blood was getting in his eye.

Really? I never would have guessed.

"Stop touching it."

"But its bleeding."

"Yeah. Brookie get a wet rag. Bry! Seriously. Stop touching your face!"

"But Mo-om, it is still bleeding."

"If you touch your face again you are going to time-out," I snapped. (Along with being an AMAZINGLY sound minded parent, I am also extremely sympathetic).

"Fi-ine. Yeeees Maaa'aaam," he moaned, slouching his shoulders impatiently.

I took a good look. My stomach went somewhere. Else. Gone. Evacuated. I started getting light-headed. (To add to my other motherly qualities, I'm also 100% incapable of looking at blood. Yes, Starling hit the jackpot on wives).

"Starling, I think you might need to handle this. And by might, I mean, now."

Starling took one look and said, "Yep. That's going to need stitches."

"What's stitches?" Bry wanted to know.

"Well. I may be able to super glue it."

"What's stitches?"

"Let me call the vet."

"Bry, look at me- I need to take a picture. Hey, stand still, man," I chimed in, camera ready.

"What is stitches?"

"We are going to need to go into the light."

"DAAAADAAAY! What is stitches?"

I answered because Starling was in the zone. He can only focus on one thing at a time. He is shockingly talented at tuning out anything other than his own brain.

"What?! I don't want to have to go to a doctor!" Bry shouted in horror. It was the first time he actually looked upset about the whole ordeal.

"The vet said he'll do it for $300 pesos. So like $28 bucks or so."

"Wow! That's awesome."

Starling came back from the vet with Bry about ten minutes later.

"That was quick," I said surprised.  

"Yeah. The vet said he thought I was talking about a dog."

"Ah. That sucks."

"He recommended a plastic surgeon on the frontage road. I mean, it is his face. We don't want him having too big a scar. But I'm going to do some research. I may can glue it myself."

Bry and Brookie went off to play while Starling hit Google and YouTube.

"Bry! Come here, bud."

He looked at Bry's wound. "I think it's too deep and wide to glue. See?" He opened it up with his thumbs, "It goes all the way to his skull."

"Starling. Seriously? You are really showing me this? What is wrong with you?" I melted into a green pile against the wall, my eyes threatening to roll into the back of my head.

"It says super glue kills the skin sometimes."

"Why are you still talking?"

"We want this flap to-"

"STARLING! Just do what you are going to do and don't tell me about it!"

 "We're going to a people doctor, bud."

"Thank goodness. Just go. Oh- and take some pictures," I moaned barely hanging onto consciousness.

About that time the Cable Guy arrived.

"bla-o, bla-o. somethingo, bla-o." (That's what I hear when Starling talks really fast Spanish to someone. And he never translates for me. Ever).

The man nodded at Starling and set to work doing something to our internet that, quite frankly, was working just fine.

"Can I go play now?"

"Oh." He remembered his son. "No, I need to go ahead and take you to the doctor. You can finish up with the Cable Guy, Wendi."

"Sure thing, babe." (I may have rolled my eyes a little because my Spanish is like the babbling of a 6 month old).

The cable guy finished fixing whatever wasn't broken. I don't know WHY Starling is always FIXING things. Something about adding something to something.

The guy explained to me exactly what he did. In Spanish. I blinked away my blank stare and nodded enthusiastically when he paused, assuming it was supposed to be my turn to talk. "Muchas Gracias, Amigo! Es muy bueno." He looked at me confused and left.

Bry returned with some nice stitch work and a sucker in each hand.

"Good, I'm glad your back! Do you want to go swim with Dillon?"

"YEAH!"

So we walked over to my friend's house and the kids played in the water while I stuffed my face with the kids' snacks.  

Then I had to cook something for our Wednesday potluck church meeting. I "made" chips, guacamole, and a bunch of sweet bread from Mega (the glorified Wal Mart).

All in all, it was a super great day. I was reminded how much home-schooling rocks and my kids now know how to ride a boogie board. And that is the moral of the story. Sometimes fun costs $60 in stitches.