A Tragic Mishap

Morgan's motherly instincts were put into full throttle this past week, when the baby had his first Mishap in the middle of the week. I shall set the scene: it was a night like any other, the birds chirped, the bees buzzed, the children ate their Cheerios, all was right with the world. Morgan sat watching the Thursday night programming while our son happily romped around her, pleased that she had returned home from a long day of work and had gone back to being a mommy.

As he got his daily exercise on the mommy gym (home version) and climbing equipment, the Mishap occurred. A miscalculation of his body's placement sent him tumbling forward uncontrollably. Unfortunately, his fall was broken...by the armrest. Specifically, the armrest decided it would be nice to save him a trip to the floor, catching him by his face. Yes, he did a faceplant directly into the armrest of our futon.

Only a parent or one who has lived with a small child can understand the sudden chilling silence following such an event. Even I, facing the computer, knew what it meant. I heard a giggle, then a thump, then complete and utter silence. For those who do not know what this silence means, I recommend the film The Perfect Storm. In the movie, the sailors who are the storm's victims experience a brief but disturbing calm much akin to the situation I am describing. That's correct, ladies and gentlemen. That silence was the eye of the storm.

When the screaming began, it was the loudest and most horrible sound ever uttered by our son thus far. Suffice to say he was very displeased with the turn of events. He screamed like this for the better part of an hour while we tried to remember the things we knew about concussions, broken noses, the common cold, dysentery, heartburn, and the Sears return policy, as well as any other piece of information that may or may not help us make our son feel better.

He experienced a brief but frightening nosebleed, which sent the three of us into a further frenzy, as I tried to reassure Morgan that no, our son was not dying and no, she did not have to get the blood out of his nose so he wouldn't suffocate while he slept. Readers, our son is 18 months old and knows quite well the many complexities of breathing through one's mouth, but as I stated above, one poor mommy's care giving instincts had been pushed to their limit, and she was prepared to precisely shift the Earth's gravity and make us all do faceplants, so that we might experience what our unfortunate son did.

Even now, five days afterward, she still had the occasion to approach me and ask, "are you sure he can't still get a concussion?" To which I always respond, "no dear, I'm pretty sure we're in the clear on that." If he grows up and joins a football team, suffering a concussion in his early 20s or so, Morgan will turn to me, scowl, and say, "there! I told you he was going to get a concussion!"