[I swear that's my mantra these days--in more ways than one, but I digress.] That's what I yelled right before the BOOM! Then came the crying.
"London pushed me!" Brandt was on the floor wailing and pointing back toward the room. London was hiding.
I picked up the one and started scolding the other. Then I saw it.
Blood POURING down Brandt's face. I swooned. A moment of shock. I forced myself to think past the blood dripping on the carpet. And I admit it, I panicked. The word 'hyperventilate' comes to mind.
I sent an accusing look at London (I know, I know, bad parenting, but in the moment . . . well, yeah), and rushed Brandt to the bathroom. I pressed a wad of toilet paper on the faucet of blood. "Hold this and don't move!" I ordered.
I grabbed my phone book and called my good friend: "So, Brandt-split-his-head-open,-and-I-need-to-take-him-to-get-stitched.-Somewhere.-I-don't-know-where-yet,-but-could-you . . . " I think I said it all in one breath.
Can I just say, thank goodness for good friends! She helped me find the address for the hospital, and kept the other two so I could keep my sanity.
To sum up, Brandt got seven stitches . . . and I'm sure a scar to match his other one. He was a brave little boy who didn't wiggle, and didn't cry at all while the doctor worked. The doctor was in awe: "I don't think I've ever seen a child sit so still for stitches before."
And now, I have finally joined the rank and file of true parents, having dealt with my first trip to the emergency room.
P.S. Dana, I didn't think about taking a 'Before' picture till it was too late. Rats.