Just on our walk yesterday, E and I were smiling about how the world is one big obstacle course for P. He doesn't just go on a walk. He climbs and twirls and skips and jumps every rock and wall and anything that could be climbed, skipped or jumped on. Unfortunately, he climbed something sharp yesterday and slashed his hand open. Had it been earlier on a Friday evening (why? why??? why are the concussions and the fevers and the gashes in life always on holidays and weekends?) I would have insisted on a hospital trip. But E, typically a mess in an emergent situation (but having had enough gashes as a little guy to be one cool cat in this situation) reassured me that with enough bandaging, we'd be good.
The poor Little Man needed a lot of reassuring too. He thought he saw bone when he first looked at his hand (before the blood filled it in;) and was weak with worry. There was weeping as Papa carried him home. We left a solid trail of blood. E and I were all encouragement and reassurance. That is, until I turned back to see a silent P with his head hanging back. "Did he pass out??" I worried, quite loudly ;)
No, he hadn't. He later told me he was tired of hearing himself cry and had told himself to stop for a break. I love that.
A little chocolate while we washed and bandaged and a good thick roll of gauze and the kid is all right. There will be a scar on his hand, but that should be it. Despite it still being sore today, he's pretty even keeled about it all now. In fact, he just loudly lamented that we've asked him to skip his rope climbing tricks for the day ;)
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