I had only sat the bags down when I heard the sound of boy on metal. It echoed like a bell ringing far away that had suddenly been cut short. In its place rose cries.
This is the soundtrack of my life. I have heard it many times. I walked into the hallway where Thing 2 lay on the ground clutching his head and crying. It was the fourth time today that I had witnessed such a scene and I stepped over it carefully as I took my coat to the closet. As I walked to, over, and eventually past my crying son I said the words of comfort that I knew he had already come to expect. I told him that he was fine. I said that he should get up.
I picked him up when he didn’t seem appropriately soothed by my tones of kindness. He had a lump on his head the likes I had never seen. It was big and it was shades of red and purple. There was a spot of blood where once had been skin. I carried him into the kitchen and applied something frozen to his forehead. He wanted no part of it.
At that point I called Tricia and told her to meet me at urgent care. We had a bump.
You know that you’ve really got a good one when everyone from security to the receptionists to the other patients to the nurse to the doctor can’t let it pass by without some sort of comment. Everyone noticed the noggin and everyone noted it, sometimes loudly.
We sat in the waiting room, me and my boys, and we waited. Tricia joined us. Then we waited longer still, as a family.
22-month-olds don’t tend to care for long waits. They don’t think highly of x-rays. They aren’t fond of medication being forced upon them. Zane was having a rough night.
It had started with a run to his room. Four hours later he made it. Detours and bumps in the path, that’s life, and the corners are sharp and most often blind.