Welp, the best thing I've got to say about yesterday is that Bubba gets to keep his teeth.  (Say that in a drawl, kind of the like the narrator to the old Dukes of Hazzard series.)

My littlest man did his second face-plant in as many days, both of which drawing blood.  The first one was a running trip over his own feet, raising a big blood-filled blister on his top lip.  But the second fall was a doozy. 

It was supposed to be a relaxing day.  I'd decided to take a day off from the gym.  It was the one day of the week that we didn't have to rush off to preschool, or Heartsong music classes, or Gymboree, or swimming lessons.  The shopping was done, and the only tasks on my to-do list were around-the-house chores.  We were still in our pajamas, watching cartoons, mid-morning.  Ahhh....

I hadn't noticed that Bubba was standing in his Ikea push-cart -- basically a 12 x 12 x 4 box on wheels, with a tall handle -- and then he leaned forward onto the handle.  The whole set-up tipped and slammed onto the hardwood floor, and there was no way for him to catch himself.  This time, his mouth exploded in a spray of blood (and spit, and tears, and snot).

I called a friend whose husband happens to be an endodontist for advice.  Should I go to the ER?  Or call a dentist?  Bubba hasn't has his teeth for very long (our whole family made it to our first birthdays with gummy smiles), so he's not an established patient anywhere.  I called my husband, to help me remotely by making phone calls while I swabbed blood, and dressed Little Bee and myself simultaneously.  We ended up with an emergency appointment at the dentist that I'd intended to transfer Little Bee's appointments to.  Off we went.

I can only imagine how we must have looked to the other families in the waiting room when we dragged ourselves in.  The 4-year-old's in an outfit of his own choosing, his hair sticking out crazily in all directions, my crying baby in blood-spotted pajamas, and myself, in a thrown on t-shirt, jeans, and a hat, looking Swanky*.

I didn't think much of it -- after all, I was more concerned about Bubba's injuries.  Another mom began asking me gentle questions about "the baby" and glancing repeatedly at my hat-covered head, and then actually got teary-eyed, I could almost hear her inner monologue.  Oh, this poor woman, with two children to take care of, and an injured baby... and CANCER.  

It's a very uncomfortable situation.  I wasn't going to get into the whole why-I-shaved-my-head story with a perfect stranger, especially while occupied with a stack of paperwork (!) and an intermittently still-bleeding baby.  Instead, I excused myself, and distracted us all by finding Nemo in the fish tank.

Long story made shorter, Bubba had an x-ray, and while his front teeth are loose and out of alignment, the roots are still intact.  In a few days, hopefully, everything will "tighten" back down, and he'll be good as new.  In the meantime, he is surly, and always hungry, and I'm only allowed to serve him mush.  It's not fun for anyone.  

Oh, and it looks like he lost a fight.  That blood blister/split lip from two days ago is still there, and he's got a new big bruise-y brushburn on his chin.  Poor guy.  I'm hoping for an accident-free day today.






*Swanky [adj.]
having qualities similar to Hilary Swank in the film "Boys Don't Cry," an adolescent-like androgyny achieved by an extremely short hairstyle, thin build, shapeless clothing, and a complete lack of make-up, jewelry, or accessories that would definitively identify a person as female.