I came home from work the other day at 4:30, changed my clothes, unpacked lunch box containers, put them in the sink to rinse, and then went to hop back into my Jeep to head back to Beverly for a guest lecturer at school.
I spied the mail truck a few houses away so I decided to wait for it…as this is the season that packages begin to arrive that are not meant for the boys’ eyes. And, by that, I mean Christmas presents, nothing shady.
Thatch and Finn began to play street hockey while they waited to see me off. It took about 5 seconds for Finn to get mad because “he had the puck first” and to mock (maybe) charge at Thatcher. After a quick lecture about “chilling out” they went back to firing on goal. As I uttered the words, “a few shots each and then you’re back inside to shower” Finn took a shot…and in doing so hit Thatcher right in the forehead with his stick. Totally an accident, but still.
Thatch did some frantic hopping around in pain and ran to me. Without looking much I immediately pushed my hands over the spot where he had been holding his. I guess, in hindsight, I was expecting a giant egg…but, I was wrong. At the same moment, the mail truck pulled up. It was when I looked over my shoulder and waved “hello” in the midst of the drama, that I noticed all the blood on my hands…and running over Thatcher’s eye and along the bridge of his nose in a nice little river. I laugh now as I think of the mail woman saying, “Have a nice night” as if we were a perfectly normal sight.
In addition to the blood and Thatcher’s moans, Finn had immediately burst into tears and started his declarations of, “I SWEAR it was an accident.” As it was soon determined that we’d be heading to the hospital, Finn got more hysterical, and Thatch told him, “It’s ok, it was an accident. I love you.” The best.
Time hop to a trip to the ER and a mere 4 stitches later. We were home before 8:00…I obviously skipped the lecture. As we walked in the door, Finn gave Thatcher the ice cream sundae that he had made for him. The best.
I sent them off to bed, but Thatcher was worried about his stitches opening in bed, so he had trouble going to sleep. Finn, well..being Finn, who knows. Finn had trouble staying in bed and got up no fewer than 7 times for a variety of unimportant reasons. While the grown-up in me knew he was obviously scared about Thatcher’s injury and by the role he played in it….I still found myself frustrated the last time he got up. I was exhausted too….and still had LOTS to do before my head would hit the pillow.
At my whit’s end I resorted to a guilt trip. And, no, I’m not proud of it. While the hit to the head was indeed an accident. JUST prior to the whack, Finn was actually charging with the intention of giving Thatcher a smack. Luckily we had intervened. But…there was still a lesson to be learned by the whole event.
I announced, “Enough already. We’ve had quite a night and you are already walking on thin water. If you know what I mean.”
Of course, the little bugger retorted, “No. No I don’t. Maybe if you had said walking on thin ice, I’d get it.”
And THAT is what I’m up against, my friends.
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