Remember, a few days ago, when I wrote, “I’ll be the one buying all their equipment and taking them to the ER when they break an arm (just thinking ahead. I mean, it’s bound to happen sooner or later)”?
Yeah. Um, about that. . .
On Saturday, I arranged for a friend to take Jackson to hockey. At the same time, I took Lexi to softball. About an hour into Lexi’s practice, I had to run across town to take Clayton to baseball. I dropped him off and left to grab some drinks for everyone. I returned to the field with bottles of water about ten minutes later to find Clay sitting on the bench, an ice pack on his face and a trail of blood from the field to the dugout.
Ordinarily, I have an arsenal of first aid items in my car, but as luck would have it, I’d enlisted my little kids to clean out the van just that morning. All the napkins and wipes had been taken out of my car. Thankfully, there’s a port-a-potty at this field so I was able to grab a roll of toilet paper to sop up the blood. You know what’s gross? Using smelly port-a-potty toilet paper on your child’s nose!
I returned from the port-a-potty and was met with the Mom of the Year people who demanded I return my trophy immediately.
“But, but, but I managed to get everyone to and from their practices on time,” I stammered. “I wasn’t out goofing off when he got hit; I was just getting water for the kids,” I tried to defend myself.
I switched tacts, “In my defense, it was only a matter of time until he got hit. I mean, have you seen him bat? He closes his eyes! How can you hit with your eyes closed? Maybe he closes his eyes when he fields too. That would explain getting hit in the face with a line drive.”
“Oh fine, here’s the trophy,” I said relinquishing my undeserved award. Once again, the fact that I always get my kids to their games, and the only time I miss a game is when two of my kids have games at the same time and I have to trade off, fades into the distance. The only thing standing out is the fact that I wasn’t there when my son was hit (oh yeah, and I used disgusting port-a-potty toilet paper as a dressing to control bleeding).
Since I’d taken Jackson to the emergency room a few months ago when he broke his nose playing, ‘Hey look at me, I’m Tony Hawk!’, I knew that doctors didn’t do anything for a broken nose unless it was grossly misshapen. Clay’s wasn’t. So, I did the next best thing. I took him to Dairy Queen. All’s well that ends well. Now to work on getting that trophy back. . .