Sunday, Bloody Sunday

It was a warm and sunny day—yes, even though weather-dude said it would rain, there was sun—and the children were playing in the yard.  A series of games, trivial disputes, and one lemonade stand and the kids were having a good time.  (By the way, where in the “kid by-laws” does it state that Mom does all the work of squeezing lemons, setting up the stand and supplying cups and ice and not get a free cup of product to sample?  The little squirts made me pay.)

There were three of them:  A little boy known as The Kid—a boy small for his age with a voice that sounds like it comes from the bottom of a well, the girl from down the street we’ll call Beth and my own Princess.  They’d made a killing on their lemonade stand, bringing in $9 to split three ways.  It would have been nice if they had at least offered to help clean up, instead of expecting me to do it.  Being the stellar mom that I am, I barked orders for them to haul in the chairs, the table, the pitchers and ice while I took down the stand.  Hey!  It wasn’t my mess. 

Finally, I was going to have time to do some quality writing.  Yeah, right.  Next came the squabbling.  They argued over everything until Mom finally put a stop to it.  The Princess was grounded to the yard for the day after having ignored her curfew the day before.  The other two children left for parts unknown.  All three were angry at each other and all three needed a break from same.

I needed a break.

Then the other two came back.  Mom laid down the law—“No more fighting or you can all go home.”  It’s not that I mind unfairness and petty crap, it’s just that I want peace.  Most parents understand about life’s being unfair.  For the most part, we don’t care.  We just don’t want to listen to it.  Period.

The Princess went out to face her two young friends.  They all made up and decided to play more. 

Now, if I had been smart, this is when I should have said, “That’s enough for today.  Why don’t you kids go home now?”  But I had finally found some peace and quiet inside my little living room/office and I wanted to spend some quality time with my computer. 

Ten minutes into the burial scene, the husband came out and demanded to know if I was going to bother to fix dinner. 

Sigh. 

He returned to the man cave and I pushed back my computer table.  That’s when I heard the screaming.  It’s nothing new to hear kids screaming in my yard.  I have a daughter.  Enough said.  This was different though.  Aside from the way the two girls were carrying on, I heard a third voice.  It was husky, rasping and full of terror. 

Another sigh.

Yeah, I know.  Most mothers would be running for the door, looking for whatever creature would dare to harm her child, but I’m not most mothers.  I don’t tend to get excited over the screams and histrionics of kids.  It’s usually nothing to worry about and when it is, a cool head is what’s needed to regain order and see to whatever the issue is.

Besides, I was tired.

So, just as I was standing to go investigate, the Princess came running in, jumping up and down with a horrified expression, screaming, “The Kid’s bleeding!  He’s bleeding real bad!”

&^$%$%^(&&^%$!!!

Both girls were screeching, the boy was clutching his bloodied head, rivulets of crimson streaming from his right eye.  His husky voice was a steady rhythm of cries so terrible it made my heart lurch—almost as much as seeing all that blood coming from the boy’s eye.

Stay calm, became my inner mantra.  I had to stay calm and make the kids settle down.  I asked them what happened and all I could get from them was that he fell from the wagon.  Ouch.  Bringing the boy in, I settled him on the couch.  Lucy, our fluffy little white dog was immediately at his side, trying to tend his wound with the rapid lapping of her tongue and the girls continued to scream.  The boy continued to scream.

I hushed them and tried to get the dog away, but damn, it was impossible.  Finally, I ordered them to take the dog outside and stay there.  Once the screaming girls were gone, it was no problem to settle the Kid down.  By then, I had managed to pry his bloody hands from his face and saw that both eyes were intact.  Whew.

A profuse amount of blood poured from his forehead.  The nearest thing I had was a box of tissues, so I slapped a pile of Puffs over the wound and told him to hold it there.  “Do you know your phone number?” I asked.  He answered in a shaking, weak voice.

While I dialed his home, I went for a wash cloth.  The last thing his parents needed was to see their little boy covered in blood.  I thought if I could wash off his face, neck, arms and legs, it wouldn’t be so horrifying for them.  When I came back out, the line had started ringing and his dad was at the door.

As luck would have it, Dad was out looking for his boy.  The girls were screaming at him that his boy was hurt and making it sound horrible.  I was back at the couch, peeling the tissue back to have a look at the wound.

A pinprick!  It was a tiny little nick in the skin that had caused all the excitement.  It was still gushing blood.  The stuff poured out of his head like someone left the faucet on.  For a moment I had an urge to yell at the boy.  I thought he was truly and seriously injured.  I was scared for him, wondering if he had a concussion, if I should call an ambulance, if I should make him lie down—and it wasn’t even a scratch.  I thought, “Dear Lord, he’ll be scarred for life.”  On top of that, I had been envisioning paying for stitches, scar removals and all manner of lawsuit expenses and the child had this little non-wound. 

After shoving the tissue back against the hapless child’s head in disgust (or was it relief?), I went to the door.  “I was just trying to call you,” I told the man.  “Don’t worry.  It’s nothing to get in a twist about, just a nick.”

The dad took it surprisingly well.  The Kid is a frail child, but he’s all boy.  Like most boys, he gets into scrapes and thumps on his little brother.  There are times when he can’t keep up with the other kids, but he sure tries like hell.  I think his dad was rather proud the boy could take a lump like that and still smile. 

The whole neighborhood was upset.  Everyone was running around checking on everyone else.  Mothers were driving from house to house, phones were ringing and gossip was passed.

All over a nick.  The Kid had already moved on, was in his back yard helping his mother pick strawberries. 

As for me, after spending a couple of hours cleaning blood out of the carpet and upholstery—and the white dog’s fur—I decided it was time for a drink.  I’m having a lovely glass of chocolate-raspberry port supplied by a wonderful friend from Canada and I’m grateful everyone is all right.  I can’t wait to see what surprises tomorrow holds.