No stitches this time.
We've just come back from a trip to the emergency room. Sparingly a short one, at only just over two hours.
Oliver decided that he would go down a slight incline of a hill on his bike, not terribly fast, bump into Mama's heel, and promptly go head first over the handlebars. At first it looked like a good cut on his chin, but nothing too drastic. But on closer inspection, the gash was quite deep and looked like it would need stitches.
We rushed to the nearest car at Nonna and Big G's, dumped poor Pip on them and headed immediately to the Royal Surrey. We rocked up to the reception and proceeded to enter into a sitcom type scenario where I'm trying to prop up a shell-shocked, bleeding child, while the receptionist goes through our details for the forms, only to find out she is the mother of one my brother's friends at primary school. There's me trying to be polite about Toby's latest endeavours, while the ambulance guy is putting on a 'special ambulance plaster' (helpfully Oliver thinks plasters are the coolest things), and Jeff giving an accurate description of what happened.
We made a quick exit to the paediatric unit to been seen by the nurse with a black eye. We were dying to ask - patient or girlfriend/boyfriend? - but refrained ourselves admirably. He then applied the superglue, and Jeff reliably informs me that's exactly what it is, with the only tears when the nurse took of the 'special ambulance plaster'. The bribe of the smoothie worked wonders.
Oliver was outstanding, again, throughout the whole couple of hours ordeal. He was a bit quiet to begin with but soon perked up once he realised there were other children and plenty of highly contagious toys to play with. The doctor who saw him last told him he was a really brave boy and promised him a smorgasbord of crappy processed food as a reward. Not quite what Mama had in mind, but I was happy to promise anything at this point just to leave.
He amazingly managed to last the car journey home insisting on having stories concocted about Thomas the Tank Engine and Chuggington. So we carried on the story about Sir Topham Hatt leaving his hats at home on his way to the Tomato judging competition and Thomas getting lost in Chuggington and having to ask for Koko's help. All immensely exciting stuff that failed dismally to put him to sleep as planned.
He is now asleep, dosed up on Calpol, glued together with surgical strip covering his chin, and is blissfully unaware of what it looked like or how it may look like. Jeff is convinced it will be a Harry Potter type scar. Something to boost the street cred anyway. Because you need that in Farnham.
Oliver, we're so proud of you little man. No tears and a lot of bravery. You rock.
Oliver decided that he would go down a slight incline of a hill on his bike, not terribly fast, bump into Mama's heel, and promptly go head first over the handlebars. At first it looked like a good cut on his chin, but nothing too drastic. But on closer inspection, the gash was quite deep and looked like it would need stitches.
We rushed to the nearest car at Nonna and Big G's, dumped poor Pip on them and headed immediately to the Royal Surrey. We rocked up to the reception and proceeded to enter into a sitcom type scenario where I'm trying to prop up a shell-shocked, bleeding child, while the receptionist goes through our details for the forms, only to find out she is the mother of one my brother's friends at primary school. There's me trying to be polite about Toby's latest endeavours, while the ambulance guy is putting on a 'special ambulance plaster' (helpfully Oliver thinks plasters are the coolest things), and Jeff giving an accurate description of what happened.
We made a quick exit to the paediatric unit to been seen by the nurse with a black eye. We were dying to ask - patient or girlfriend/boyfriend? - but refrained ourselves admirably. He then applied the superglue, and Jeff reliably informs me that's exactly what it is, with the only tears when the nurse took of the 'special ambulance plaster'. The bribe of the smoothie worked wonders.
Oliver was outstanding, again, throughout the whole couple of hours ordeal. He was a bit quiet to begin with but soon perked up once he realised there were other children and plenty of highly contagious toys to play with. The doctor who saw him last told him he was a really brave boy and promised him a smorgasbord of crappy processed food as a reward. Not quite what Mama had in mind, but I was happy to promise anything at this point just to leave.
He amazingly managed to last the car journey home insisting on having stories concocted about Thomas the Tank Engine and Chuggington. So we carried on the story about Sir Topham Hatt leaving his hats at home on his way to the Tomato judging competition and Thomas getting lost in Chuggington and having to ask for Koko's help. All immensely exciting stuff that failed dismally to put him to sleep as planned.
He is now asleep, dosed up on Calpol, glued together with surgical strip covering his chin, and is blissfully unaware of what it looked like or how it may look like. Jeff is convinced it will be a Harry Potter type scar. Something to boost the street cred anyway. Because you need that in Farnham.
Oliver, we're so proud of you little man. No tears and a lot of bravery. You rock.
posted by Emma Sweetwater at
March 28, 2009
0 Comments
