It's like the movie, "Adventures in Babysitting" where everything that could go wrong, did. At the worst possible moment. It's Murphy's Law, personified. Where to begin?
Oh, I know: I feel like crap. I felt like crap last night, too, when my youngest decided that screaming at the top of her lungs for hours on end just wasn't enough to brighten my day with. Okay, technically it was night, because my children have decided they must be on an overnight schedule. Just like Daddy! Yay! *groan* We had to add injury to the mix.
I am not generally one to panic. Prone to dramatics, perhaps, but honest to god panic? Nah. The one and only time I truly panicked about one of my children was with the first one, the very first time she bled. To my credit, it was quite a bit of blood, and I didn't freak out until I couldn't stop the gushing. What happened, you ask? The day she started scooting, I had her on the bed with me because I had The Morning Sickness of Doom, and before I could catch her, she decided to take a header off the edge to get to her stuffed animal on the floor. Yeah. Face freaking first. Nosebleed of the year!
So when my youngest crashed off the rocking chair and started crying, I sighed, and heaved my heavily pregnant and yet only 4 months along, *sigh* ass off the couch to tend to her. They climb, they jump, they run, they scream, and generally speaking, this is when I know they're both okay. When it gets quiet or someone does the "I'm actually in pain!" cry, I know something's wrong. Until then, it's just rambunctious toddler fun. Now, my kids often cry for thirty seconds and then run off to rejoin the fun, and I expected this tumble to be like most others. I realized I was wrong when I saw blood.
Aw, shit. This was my first thought as I hunted down the source of the blood. It was her head, of course, because that's just my luck. I checked her pupils, asked her to stand up, but honestly, other than the "damn that hurt!" crying, she was just fine. I wasn't worried. I took her to the bathroom, stopped the bleeding she has AWESOME clotting, incidentally and washed down her head so I could see it. It was a tiny cut, really. But because Murphy hates me, it was deep. Damn deep. I realized my poor little two and a half year old needed stitches.
I had to call her daddy home from work, bundle up my kids, haul my huge self around for 4 hours of car rides, ER visit, a stop at Walmart for peroxide, and finally making food for us all because now we were all starving. Why couldn't this crap happen on one of the days or nights that I feel halfway decent? Because say it with me, kids Murphy. Hates. Me. Now my child has three staples in her head that she didn't even cry over, go Raven! and I get to add a wound-cleaning regimen to my day. Taking care of two kids and a full-time-working significant other while being pregnant isn't enough, Universe. Please, add some more on.
Someone shoot me.