This will make the 3rd time in a couple of weeks that I've blogged about blood, but I'm not a one-trick pony, y'all. I also renovate refrigerators with no workable exit strategy, so don't pigeonhole me.
Anyway, today Toby ran up the stairs helter-skelter, as he is wont to do, and at the top of the stair there was a resounding slam followed by banshee screaming. I could tell it was an actual injury, and not the normal kind where they point to the wrong leg while they're telling you about it.
So I'm running up the stairs and trying to summon courage for the task and then there's blood running down his face. I mean, bad. And he's screaming like Faust and I am thinking fast, because I'm not allowed to pass out. "Head wounds bleed a lot," I tell myself. "I probably won't see his brains when he moves his hand..." And sure enough, no brains. Just lots of blood and hair and screaming. And in the corner, a nekkid and ashamed Brynn, who slammed the door ON Toby for privacy whilst she changed. Sigh.
I cleaned him up with a washcloth while speaking sternly to myself in my mind, and then made him hold the cloth on his head while I found the first aid kit. He occupied himself by screaming at Brynn, who was nowhere to be found. "WHY DID YOU DO THIS? WHY CAN YOU SLAMMED THE DOOR ON MY HEAD? BRYNN. I DON'T LIKE THAT!" And then, he-who-will-not-be-napping woke up and joined the fracas, because Tristan always likes to be part of the action.
In the end, it was a small-ish gash, one Band-Aid did the job. Tristan is back asleep and I am a woozy Queen of the World.