"Mom? Um...you need to come here. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow..."
The words floated up to me from the basement, where ten-year-old Monet had just gone with a bag full of trash. His daily job is to haul the trash to the garage, and his weekly job is to usher it to the curb. He had just begun the first phase of the weekly job--gathering all of the rubbish around the house.
The funny thing is, I panicked, but not really. Does that make sense? Inwardly, I thought, "Okay. He's not screaming his head off. He usually screams his head off if it's just a little scratch. Maybe this is serious?"
As I descended the stairs, there sat Monet, cradling his right foot, while a pool of blood collected beneath it. It was serious.
"Look away. What happened?" I asked, as I gently removed his sock, trying to calm his nerves. He was full-force crying by then.
He explained that he had been swinging the bag into the can when he felt something hit the top of his foot. He didn't think it was anything at first, until he noticed that his sock was soaking wet. I poured peroxide on it, assessed the offending object (the top of a Starbucks Frappuccino bottle--no rust), and applied pressure. After several minutes of pressure, the gaping 1/2 inch wide wound was still gushing blood. I couldn't determine how deep the cut was.
A trip to the doctor's office proved entertaining. Sweetheart went along, for moral support and for the gross-out factor. She was greatly intrigued by the massive amounts of blood. Our doctor, a fellow homeschooling parent with a great sense of humor, helped Monet overcome his fears by talking about their common interest in Calvin and Hobbes.
The doctor explained that he was going to give Monet a pin prick, which was the needle to numb the pain. As he inserted the needle, the wound started gushing blood again. Monet winced. Another poke. A bigger wince. And then, the needle and thread. Now, a great big wince, until...
"Hey! I don't feel anything! It doesn't hurt! Wow. This isn't so bad. You know what? This is kinda cool. Wow! This is GREAT!"
I, on the other hand, was just about to pass out. More blood. Needle going in and out of the foot. More blood. Argh.
"How long does the numbing stuff last?" Monet asked.
"About three minutes, so I have to work fast," the doc replied. After the scared look on Monet's face, the doc admitted that it would stay numb for about an hour.
After the stitching, the doc said, "I'll have my nurse come in here and put some dressing on it. What do you like...thousand island? Bleu cheese...?" Monet didn't quite get it, so I explained it after the doc left.
On our way to the car, Monet continued admiring his wounded foot. "I kinda wish it woulda been more serious," he said.
I glared at him.
"Well, then I coulda just gone home and sat around all day."
Still, he thought it was pretty cool that he could go to the library without his shoe on.
Never a dull moment.
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