Stitches and Stuffing: What We Are Made Of

She must get it from her father because it didn't come from me. She has an innate need to climb anything taller than herself, just because she can. She laughs in the face of danger and eats fear for breakfast. She won't be two for another month but she has already performed death defying feats the likes of which a paratrooper would quiver at.

Bridget has no fear.

Friday morning while walking down the stairs ahead of her, she yelled "Amy!" and flew through the air from the top step. I caught all twenty eight pounds of her on the landing- after dropping a basket of laundry to quickly free up my hands. This calling me Amy thing is a bit irritating, but her skydiving sans parachute is a little more disconcerting.

By noon she had climbed on to a kitchen chair, and onto the table, thrown her airs in the air and jumped to the floor about 10 times before she finally had enough.

It's useless to try to stop her. It just makes her find higher things to climb. I hope she never learns fear and mounts Everest someday. Or does the things the rest of us can't find the moxy to do. I do hope she finds some common sense though, because some days of the week, she is just ridiculous.

Friday night I was exhausted. Keeping Miss Raggamuff in one piece is a very hard job. I was relaxing on the couch, with all of the family around me, marvelling at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. It was time to put Bridget to bed, but I was waiting anxiously to see who of the four chosen ones would be lighting the outdoor cauldron. Jamie and I had been discussing it for a week (because we are just that exciting).

Then it happens, I won the bet and The Great One takes off to run up the ramp to light the cauldron. I am watching as he takes off and then in the corner of my eye, I see a blond haired, blue eyed Squiddlefart flying through the air. This time she didn't jump though.

Her little Fisher Price chair had managed to tip over while she was squirming around, which launched her towards her little wooden tea party table. I am not sure it happened, but in my memory of the bang, I could swear the pictures on the wall shook.

Thank God she cried right away. But as Jamie grabbed her up, all I could see was gushing out of her face. Just for effect, Jamie was wearing a white shirt and we have beige carpet.

It was horrifying.

The sequence of events that I remember happening after that included me wetting a cloth with cold water in the kitchen and buckling her into the car seat, blood was coming from inside her mouth and not her nose, as I had previously thought. Jamie grabbed a bottle of milk from the fridge, my purse from the counter and Daniel grabbed her favourite Dora blanket, because she was in fact just wearing sleepers.

The drive to the hospital we pass every day, never ever took so long before. Bridget howling in the car seat, me beside her trying to hold her hand, rub her arm, talk to her, anything to make her feel better. She was not interested in being comforted; she was spitting blood and boogers faster than I could wipe it away. There was no way to apply pressure, there was so much blood I didn't even know what to put pressure on.

Pulling up in front of the hospital, I noticed that an ambulance had just pulled in. I realized then that even with all of the blood spouting from Bridget, chances were good; this was going to take a while. Inside a little girl whose mother spoke no English, sat miserable with a very high fever and a little boy cried that his bum hurt. I was ready to settle in, but not sure of what to do with all of the blood, and my hysterical toddler. Behind them, an entire waiting room of defeated looking patients waited for their turn.

Apparently blood gets quick service. A paramedic with kind eyes finished handing off his cardiac arrest patient and came to me with wipes, warmed for Bridget's comfort- to get some of the blood off. Jamie had just walked through the door from parking the car. He held her while I tried to clean up her up as best I could. The triage nurse weighed her quickly and sent us to registration.

Still bleeding and now just looking unbearably exhausted, Bridget settled on her father's lap while we waited our turn. I took a moment to breathe, perhaps for the first time since I heard the clunk. It was then I realized I was wearing a pair of black Capri yoga pants with a recently acquired bleach stain, a comfy shirt that has long been relegated to pyjama duty and I hadn't combed my hair or brushed my teeth since when I did it upon waking in the morning. I was not wearing a coat, but I was wearing sneakers, with no socks. Naked hairy legs sat in the waiting room, grateful that through the grace of God I was wearing a bra when it happened. The hairy legs were embarrassed to be out in public, but make no mistake; they knew things could have been much, much worse.

I wasn't expecting at all to see a doctor walking towards us, in the waiting room, not five minutes after we had sat down. I was ecstatic to know that he was looking for Bridget. I was less ecstatic to hear that 'if she was my child, I would want her asleep to stitch that up. It's a through and through- those can leave a nasty scar."

I thank God every day that my family is healthy. I can't imagine for a minute the terror a parent must feel when their baby is not well. Watching them put an IV in Bridget's arm was horrifying. I understand why they made us stay sitting. It takes a lot to stay conscious when your child is screaming hysterically because they are hurt and there isn't anything you can do to help them.

The room had been chaos while they inserted the IV. The nurse in pink had put it in, but when it came time to administer the anaesthetic, it wouldn't work. There were six staff members in the room, whether they were doctors or nurses, as well as, Jamie, Daniel, howling Bridget and I. Everyone was talking all at once, deciding what to do about the improperly set up IV. Everyone except a nurse named Luke. Who, while everyone else was holding a much unorganized summit on what to do next, slid silently, confidently next to the bed, and fixed it. He told us he didn't think would be fair to her if they took it out and put it in again, in a soft French accent. I suspect I spelled his name wrong, but I do know I am very grateful for his quiet confidence.

Her vomiting delayed the procedure. Vomiting while under anaesthetic can result in death. I knew this, because the doctor told us- and made us sign the papers. I started wondering if maybe a scar on the bottom right corner of her lip wasn't something she could live with. When she finally had thrown up the pint of blood she had swallowed in the last half hour, all over her father, she drifted off to sleep.

Everyone decided to back off for a few minutes- to let her calm down. It was better to wait a while and do it well than it was to rush now and not do a perfect job. I was still insistent that they had warned us about the vomiting, and she had vomited. I didn't care how long it took.

Peacefully asleep now, I watched her, blood seeping from the gash on her face. I said a hundred rounds of Now I Lay You Down to Sleeps with an intermittent Hail Mary. I had never been so scared. Why had I not put her to bed earlier? None of this would have happened. Why did we even have that stupid chair? Why was the chair stupid in the first place?

The pillow was covered in blood now. Clearly, she did need stitches.

An hour or so passed before they attempted it again. I was relieved that she was still asleep when they endeavoured to put her to sleep with the drugs. Luke informed me that the anaesthetic sometimes burns as it goes it, and it must have, because it woke her, causing her to scream out.

It didn't take long at all once they started. It only took two stitches to close the gaping hole in her face. They didn't do the pink part of her lip or the inside- just the part that might scar. Three hours sitting in the emergency room, to pay the price for not watching her for the blink of an eye.

We don't have the chair anymore. It's been relegated to the basement until I figure out what else to do with it. I don't want someone to think its ok to use and end up with an injured baby. It does tip ridiculously easily, though I never would have thought it. I'll be sending this to Fisher Price so they know what happened, and will hopefully reassess the design of the blue chair, with the cow face, that converts from an infant's seat to a toddler's chair. If you own one, I suggest you put it in your basement as well.

Bridget is fine today, two days later. The blue material protruding from her face is barely noticeable, and hopefully the resulting scar will be even less so. Of course, she can't have anything interesting to eat for a few days and she isn't keen on that, but she is otherwise healthy. For that I am extremely grateful. I know there are people for whole their ordeal is not so quickly ended. I am thankful that Bridget will be fine in a week, when the stitches are removed. Scar or no scar.

I need to run though- it appears as though she is trying to mount the kitchen counter. I have no doubt that she can do it, but this is one achievement I think we can do without. I suspect at this point I should be putting away a few dollars every month. I expect one of these days, we will need to sponsor an expedition to Everest, if she can take a few days off from skydiving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

High Heels in Winter

Not your typical girl, I own very few pairs of shoes. I don't like to wear uncomfortable things so when I find something I can walk in all day, I buy multiple pairs of the same style. For this reason, I love Payless. Year after year they have the exact same black flat casual sandals with the silver detail and the same pair of black flat shoes that I can wear every day. I have owned 3 pairs of each.

So it should not come as any surprise that when I have to dress up, I knew exactly which pair of dress shoes I will wear. Those being the high black boots with the pointy toe and high heal that were out of style long before I had the nerve to plunk down the dollars required to buy them.

But it's not just that I am cheap.

It's that I have a bad case of Cankles. If you are blessed not to be affected by this affliction, I will explain that it appears that my calf runs right into my foot, with no ankle in between. It's really a beautiful leg, shaped like a sausage with a foot stuck on at the end. Anyway, it took years to find a boot that would even do up over my calf. I will wear them until I die- Just because my legs fit in to their leather loveliness. In fact, for that reason, I might like to be buried in them.

So this past Sunday, I spent the day at an Open House at Bride on a Budget, down on Whyte Avenue. Ever the professional photographer, I donned my darling boots. Navigating the sidewalks and snow banks while carrying an over the shoulder camera bag with a hand held laptop bag was a challenge. Edmonton really doesn't go out of it's way when it comes to snow clearing. It's like we are left to tunnel our way through life for 8 months of the year.

But this is not a commentary on civic services. It is a monologue on why my legs are black and blue.

Anyway, I needed to scoot home as soon as the store closed to get Daniel to hockey on time. I was relieved to see the condo people had cleared a path to my front door. I hoped out of the truck, grabbed my equipment and confidently strode up the walkway, and then climbed the 5 stairs to my door.

I was relieved to find the front door open and when I pushed it open, Bridget was in the hallway yelling, 'Mommy!' in that heart warming way that would make strangers think that I had just returned from the moon.

In a hurry to greet her, I must have gotten over confident in my leather death traps and slipped on the outside mat, which, because it was nice and mild earlier in the day had frozen into a skating rink.

Of course, it wouldn't be like me to just slip. No, no, no. I had to slip and crack both shins on that evil sharp metal part of the bottom of the door, while my camera bag left my shoulder and flew past Bridget and into the kitchen. I don't know where the laptop flew to, but I do know its return trip had it clunk me in the back of the head.

I swear if the Eiffel Tower tipped over tomorrow, it wouldn't make so much noise.

Daniel flew out of the living room to see what had just exploded at the front of the house, and Jamie came thundering down the stairs. Apparently, he is used to these productions because hadn't even seen me laying on my belly, laptop on my head, papers scattered, camera and lenses all over the kitchen with my legs still out the door with the rest of me on the door mat in the porch before he bellowed, "Those Jesus Boots."

He wasn't implying they were Holy, or otherwise mentioned in any version of the Bible. Not at all.

Now, there I am, shins in such pain I didn't think I would ever move again. Daniel was busy taking inventory of what was broken and what had survived the fall. And then it happens. Just like it always does. He tried to move me.

I am still laying face down, with my cheek on the mat, convinced both legs are broken and he will throw the boots away. I don't want to be touched. I don't want to be moved. I just want to paramedics to cast me, right there, in the doorway- Without touching me.

He tried to pull my legs (which are up in the air at this point, at a 90 degree angle) inside the house to close the door. Neighbours were standing on our walkway, assessing the situation so he thought it was best to get my carcass out of the doorway. His moving me hurt like I can't describe so I holler, "Don't move my legs!"

I can't be the only person who doesn't want to be touched when there is a hot pain searing through their shins. Surely I am not. Well that was it! He starts about the boots, and what did I think I had on my feet in the dead of winter (as though high heeled leather boots are meant for the beach in the hot summer sun).

So from my position on the floor, where I was assessing the degree to which the porch needed sweeping, I yell, "I don't want to be moved! Give me a minute."

Agitated about the crowd of onlookers having a smoke in front of the house, he tries to pull my legs in again, trying to convince me that I am being irrational about all of this. So I say very calmly (though Jamie would tell you otherwise) "Do not touch me."

Well that was it. We were off to the races. He stomps up over the stairs. "Fine then, stay there- you are so mean to me! Mean, just like when you were in labour!"

 

Right. That's what he said. "Mean, just like when you were in labour."

That fellow has no idea what kind of old age home I am going to park his arse in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged....

Young and childless people have very high ideals. Ideals such as doing their hair before they head out to go shopping, and dressing as though they don't actually need to go shopping. Others think things like "Why is that child screaming? Can't his parents control him?"

To this I say, stop looking at me with your freshly made up eyes while you stand there in your stylish boots wondering why I am covered in mud, wearing a head band with roots for miles trying to put a bag of apples in the cart with one hand while gripping the wrist of the child that is screaming and trying to jump out of the cart with the other.

Someday, you may have a toddler and I doubt that your fancy purse is going to like doubling as a diaper/wipe/spare pants/bottle of milk holder any better than my formerly stylish purse does.

Today when I got up to take Bridget to the indoor playground at Servus Place in St. Albert, I realized that the 'Bridget is quickly outgrowing all of her clothes situation' had escalated to a full blown case of "I have nothing to put on the child that won't make someone trigger the panic button that calls in the people whose job it is to protect children from neglect."

I also realized we were out of any sort of fruit. I never understood how fridges go from no room to put in another thing to nothing in there except for that little bit of Pepsi right in the bottom that no one wants to drink and some asparagus that resembles something that was affected by Chernobyl.

It was startlingly clear all of a sudden- it was time to hit a Wal-Mart.

When we dropped Jamie off at work this morning, Bridget started crying hysterically. She never cries for him when we drop him off to work. But this morning, she was none too impressed with spending the day with Mommy. Just in case I was unsure of how she felt about the situation, the little darling spent the entire twenty minute drive in blowing snow shouting 'No Mommy. Bridget want Daddy. No Mommy. Bridget want Daddy." She did take a brief break from that long enough to shout 'No Foffee" at the lady at Tim Horton's, but resumed the minute we pulled back into to traffic.

I foolishly thought that my luck might have changed when I pulled onto the Wal-Mart parking lot and there were one of those parking spaces for parents available. I am almost sure they are meant for people with tiny babies, or for expectant mothers, but really, no one wanted to have that conversation with me today. With the way the last hour had gone, it was in their best interest to let me park there.

Bridget insisted on walking into the store, across the muddy parking lot. Which was fine, except halfway through the journey she changed her mind. She needed a ride from the Mommy that would have to do since Daddy was unavailable.

Mommy coincidently was wearing a freshly laundered lime green coat. Mommy suddenly had boot prints from tiny size seven winter boots on the front and back of her coat since her biggest fan wanted to sit on her hip.

Now I will say that if I had just gotten out of a car seat, I likely would not want any part of getting into the baby containing part of a shopping cart. I am sure it's not comfy and it would prevent from being able to pull shelves full of cans unto the floor, and also impede my ability to run away from Mommy.

However, I would not fight my mother to the point where she snapped her neck in that extremely painful way that only happens when you have something else you need to do and suddenly you can't move your head in any direction and there is no one available to help. Well, except for the Wal-Mart greeter who is standing, watching all of this happen, waiting to pass out smiley face stickers that mock you as you stroll through the aisles, instead of just holding the cart while you wrestle someone into it.

Now, my entire list of things I needed to buy today consisted of deodorant to ward of smell, hand soap to kill the germs, a few outfits for Bridget to get us through until the fun spring clothes arrives, some cheddar cheese for fajitas, and a red pepper and some fruit to ward off scurvy.

Alone, the whole process might have taken 10 minutes, self check out time included.

Today, with Miss Congeniality strapped into the cart it took me an hour and a half. Which means it actually took me more like 20 minutes per item, and trust me when I tell you, I didn't browse or price check. I was a Momma on a Mission. Oh wait, I forgot about the foot prints. I was a Muddy Momma on a Mission.

Perhaps the highlight of the trip came in the baby clothes aisle. While I was looking for shirts to coordinate with the pants she already owns (because this child appears only to grow from the waist up- like her mother) she was very, very quiet. She was sitting in the cart, not screaming 'Stuck! Stuck!' at the top of her lungs trying to escape the strap that keeps her firmly planted in the cart for the first time since our arrival.

I was actually inclined to take a deep breath, but I didn't want to push my luck.

Then I saw it, whizzing past my head.

A pink size 7 winter boot, full of that awful mud that originates on the floor of yellow school buses for the sole purpose of permanently staining anything that it comes into contact with, sailing through the air.

Of all of the racks and open floor space in Wal-Mart, my child's boot had to fly into the rack of purple outfits. There it was- a size 7 boot print right on the shoulder of the Minnie Mouse shirt with the coordinating purple and gold leopard print pants.

And of course at that very moment a blue smocked lady was standing right next to me. If I had been looking for her there would be no chance I would find her. Yet, at my finest moment, there she was, taking the gaudy purple outfit with the boot print off the rack and wordlessly placing it in my cart.

Finished shopping in that department faster than I anticipated I continued on to the fruits and vegetables. Where, while I was putting strawberries into the cart, baby Houdini managed to figure out the strap, unbuckle her pleasant self, stand up, and shout at the top of her lungs, "Ta Da!"

Of course, at that very moment, one of those mothers with the three freshly scrubbed children with their perfect hair and nails were thumping melons nearby. Noticing the safety concern, she thoughtfully shot me that look that says, "Woman, why didn't you strap that child of yours in."

The trip through the checkouts was shaping up to be pretty uneventful. Instead of calling attention to herself when she escaped this time, as I was putting the groceries on the belt, she decided to just scale the side of the cart to make a fast get away instead. Of course, who do I see coming towards me as I am booking it back towards produce to catch my one booted toddler, but Melon Momma and her cherub faced trio.

"Gee, you really have your hands full with that one," she quips with a smirk.

I'll skip over the part where my head explodes and I still manage to snag my kid and pin her into the cart, stuff the boots onto her feet while passing the cashier money and then storm across the parking lot. You don't need details. Some of you know how it went because it has happened to you . . . Others of you will know how it looked when you were judging others - that's right, I am talking to you Melon Momma.

I would love to tell you that after I got my little bundle of love into the car seat she had a lovely nap while I drove home in peace with a good cup of coffee. But I can't tell lies.

What I can tell you is that after 40 minutes of yelling 'I stuck, I stuck' all the way home, when we finally pulled into the driveway, I spent 20 minutes chasing her around the truck trying to capture her because I mistakenly unbuckled here before bringing in my three bags of groceries thinking she might hold my hand and walk nicely. And then, while taking the tags off the leopard print toddler sized stripper number we are now the proud owners of so that I could bring it straight to the laundry, Bridget helped to unpack the groceries. She was a big help. I especially appreciated her squirting half a bottle of almond and shea butter hand soap all over the strawberries.

So now I am not sure if we are going to be struck down by germs or scurvy first, but you can bet your next mortgage payment that I won't be headed back to the store with my tiny terror any time soon- that is, if they will even let me in the door.