Gracie by the fateful corner.
Six stitches. No tears.
The destroyed toy. I promised her Shane would buy her a new one.Perhaps the most noteworthy event of the night was when Shane picked up the toy and tore it to pieces.
She was headed toward the fridge, slipped on the mirophone they'd been playing with earlier, and bashed her head on the corner of the counter. We were all in the kitchen. I was at the table, talking to Mom on the phone, and Shane was right beside Grace. And down she goes.
What always impresses me in events such as these is that I'm the calm one. Shane picked her up off the floor, thinking her eye had been poked out, and carried her to me. And as the blood was dripping down her face, onto me, onto the floor . . . he picks up the mirophone and . . . well, it's not usable, anymore. And THEN he gets us a rag.
We were in the ER at Mercy forever. The baby girl did not flinch the whole time. She's steal. She's unbreakable. She's just like me. Six stitches. And she talked to the doctor during the entire procedure, like she was getting her nails done or something. She is like no one I've ever seen.
It's late and I've still got to router all the sharp edges in the house tonight. In the morning, off to buy helmets for the crews.
But first I'd better see if Shane has calmed down any . . . .
PS - Thank you to Joni and the good doctor for coming over and watching the kids. And for the text messages.
3 comments:
Whoa you were quick on the draw with that one. Very prompt. I like it. Gracie just wishes it was on her back or smthg so everyone isn't looking at her. We should have made her a sign explaining what happened. By the way I think you owe me some props with the b.a. thing, Ann. We know you didn't come up with that yourself.
Props given, however, that little girl earned that distinction.
I wish I had a video of her. I was the proudest mother ever.
I enjoyed Grace's phone call lastnight. Telling me to talk as loud as I could while Im yelling into the phone she tells me she cant hear me. I definately love her.
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