I'm not kidding. I think we might as well move to the hospital.
Thomas was outside playing this evening. He was riding his bike with his friends and got hot and thirsty. He came in, grabbed an Orange Crush in a can, and went back out. He was not "drinking and driving", rather he drank his pop in our driveway with the other kids surrounding him. Then he decides to crush the can up and put in his pocket so he doesn't litter.
Upon crushing the can, the aluminum broke and cut his hand and thumb. Bad.
He came in and was nice and calm. Bob helped him clean up, putting his hand under running water. It wasn't until I came in and did that mom GASP -- you know the one, it sounds like the end of the world has come -- that Thomas freaked.
I don't do blood or cuts well. Or bodily fluids, but luckily we only had blood, although I did feel like throwing up. lol
We cleaned him up and headed for the ER. Only five stitches. Thomas cried because they didn't give enough deadening medication. Every stitch and tie, Thomas cringed and cried. I felt awful for him.
And then it was over. We went to Walgreen's to get some new, fresh antibiotic ointment and large band aids, and then to Dairy Queen to celebrate the fact that it was done.
I am so sick of hospitals, doctors, and the smells and memories associated with them. As we walked out, I joked that I thought we were through visiting these places and Bob laughed an evil laugh. I should have known better.
It was only stitches. It could have been worse. I'll count my blessings. And Thomas will never smash a pop can with his hands again. Ever.