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He Then Gave Me a Heart Attack… and Off to the ER We Went!

The smile totally excuses it!

My two-year-old is going to give me a heart attack. Seriously!

I swear that toddlers have to be some of the clumsiest, most accident-prone people on planet earth, and the boy ones … they are going to do me in!

Yesterday my middle son landed himself in the ER and made me feel like the crappiest mom on planet earth.

I know it is not my fault, and accidents happen, but when you cart your crying toddler into an emergency room wiping tears and snot, rubbing his back, and repeatedly telling him everything will be ok … it doesn’t feel good at all.

It all started when I picked my oldest son up from school. I packed the kids back into the car and headed home. When we got to our house I parked like I always do, and unhooked the boys, got Addison out of the car, and then walked both boys to the front steps. Like I always do. ALWAYS!

Same thing … every school day. No different today. I didn’t do anything differently …

I walked back over to the car, about 10 feet from my front steps and opened the passenger door to get my oldest’s backpack out of the car, typical routine … like always.

Then it happened. I closed the passenger side door of the car.

And I heard him start screaming.

And I panicked and opened the door up.

And looked at his fingers realizing they looked as flat as a pancake and I must have broken my poor baby boys fingers.

He had walked from the steps back over to the car because I am guessing today looked like a great day to play with the antenna on the car, or at least try and reach it, and because he is such a small little guy, I never saw him on the other side of the door.

I never saw him standing there with his fingers inside the door jam trying to climb up onto the car.

I couldn’t even yell at him in that moment. I couldn’t explain to him why we don’t touch the car, or why he always needs to stay on the front steps when I am getting things out of the car. I couldn’t reason with him, or myself.

I went into Mama Bear mode, threw all the kids back in the car, dropped my oldest off with my neighbor who occasionally watches the boys in a pinch, and off I went to the closest emergency room.

By the time we got there he had calmed down more, but the way he was holding his hand and had it positioned still alarmed me. And he was seen by the ER doctor, and had three x-rays taken to make sure there was nothing broken in his poor little hand.

Again, I felt like the biggest asshole on planet earth.

He was a champ through it all. He didn’t move for any of the x-rays and did such a great job the x-ray tech took him to the unit toy box to pick out a toy for being so good. I think at that point he had completely forgotten about his busted-up hand, and was more focused on the helicopter he picked out.

It had to be one of the worst feelings in the world. I still feel horrible about it hours later.

He is fine, no broken bones, no open wounds, just a slightly bruised ego.

And me? I think I am going to need a couple weeks to recover from this. And I need a plan as to how I am going to survive the next 18 years with not one, but two accident-prone sons.

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