Drama for the Mama
Let me preface this story by telling you that Sunday, in general, is the hardest day of the week for my little family. It is the only day of the week that we all have to be at the same place at the same time. It's hard to get three wee ones ready from head to toe, and I normally have nothing to wear. It is the day when it seems like our house shrinks at least in half, and anything that can go wrong does. I think that it's the day the Devil does whatever he can to try and get you to decide that you can't make it to church. I think that, while you are sleeping on Saturday night, clothes are wrinkled and keys are hidden and shoes are strategically placed to ensure maximum trippage capability. This is why I think that in order to take our stand against the devil's schemes, we need not only the belt of truth and the helmet of salvation, but also a little alarm button of some sort to help you find your keys.
The long morning and afternoon leads to an even longer Sunday night, which includes AWANAs for Tater and Tot from 6 to 8. They have a blast, learn alot, and really just run themselves ragged. So, needless to say, the kids are tired by the time we get home.
All of that (my word!) to tell you this story about Tot. Tot who, on this particular Sunday, was absolutely exhausted. Combine the exhaustion with a Benadryl buzz and a skinned knee, and you've got the perfect recipe for drama. May I present to you,
complete with pictures
It all began with the first steps into the classroom. There was an unnoticed fall and a quiet comment about a hurt knee. There were no tears, no requests for kisses, and really, no one even paid attention. The fall was followed by two hours of play, a trip to the grocery store, and a walk into the house. That is when we saw it. And by we I mean she. And by she I mean Tot.
A spot of blood on her white tights.
A spot smaller than a penny, but with consequences as large as the sea.
The spot of blood led to the discovery of a small scratch on her left knee. A spot that was, in fact, smaller than the spot of blood on the tights. A scratch so miniscule, that you probably can't even see it in this professional photo taken by her father, The King of Shorts in Winter.
That scratch was then treated with an "icepack" that is about the same size as, well, the palm of her hand.
Little did we know that the wound would leave her unable to walk.
In case you can't tell, she's scooting. On her bottom. She scooted on her bottom from the living room to the dinner table, all the while proclaiming "I'm hurt! I can't walk! I need my icepack! I have a RED SPOT on my knee!"
It was a long, agonizing trip.
Even a steaming bowl of the best Spaghetti-O's in town couldn't stop the pain. Or the tears.
We did, however, have a medical breakthrough.
When nature calls?
All wounds are healed.