Sticks and snails and puppy dog tails

Just yesterday, I was discussing with fellow blogger Akaemi about how I prefer boys to girls. Now, I could be a little biased. But I declared to her, "I prefer dirt and ER visits to the emotional games that girls play." Boy, have I got to be more careful about what I say.
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Before-school preparations consume my peak multi-tasking skills. I'm waking children, changing diapers, dressing children, checking homework folders, preparing breakfast, packing lunches, and trying to keep the house from burning down simultaneously. I've gotten pretty good at it. But I am not a superhero.

This morning I was helping my kindergartner put on his shoes while talking on the phone with my husband about paperwork. My two-year-old had just whomped me in the glasses with a large plastic stick and I think he was feeling guilty. So I didn't notice when he disappeared around the corner.

Suddenly I heard a cry. Not the "I hurt my foot" cry or the "my brother bonked me" cry. It was the "I'm really hurting so come to me right now" cry. And then he yelled out, "Dere's blood!" I hung up on my husband as I dashed into the kitchen. And he was right. There was blood. All over his hands. He held a knife in one hand while the other reached out to me pleadingly. The blood was already pooling on the floor. The poor penitent child had tried to help me slice an apple for the lunches.

I grabbed a paper towel and tried to staunch the flow. I checked his hand and saw just a slice across his index finger, but there was an alarming amount of blood. We soaked through one, two, three paper towels. I looked up at my other boys who were watching fearfully. I had to make a decision: take them with me to the doctor/hospital or send them off to the bus alone? My seven-year old helped put pressure on the wound while I finished packing their lunches and sent them out the door. He is my little hero, taking his autistic five-year-old brother to the bus for me so I could concentrate on the little one.

I finally stopped the bleeding and checked the wound. It was borderline stitch country. So I packed him off to the pediatrician. A nurse and a doctor both said he needed stitches, so I headed to the local pediatric ER. The nurse there wasn't sure and she brought in a doctor. He wasn't sure either so he brought in another doctor. All in all, it took one pediatric co-pay, one ER copay, and five medical professionals to decide that stitches were not an option. Apparently the skin on fingers heals differently than the rest of the body, especially on children. Plus, kids regenerate faster than a lizard's tail. They sent me home with a package of Steri-strips and a pat on the back.

After I strapped the little one into his car seat, I plunked down into my seat and heaved a great sigh. I was already exhausted at 9:00 in the morning. I turned to my freshly bandaged two-year-old and he smiled at me. Then he said,

"Thank you, mommy. Thank you."

Yep, I still prefer boys.