Monday, January 23, 2012

Another Story for the Grandkids

The day I brought my ten year old home from the hospital, I put him up in his crib for a nap.  After a while I heard an odd noise coming from upstairs.  Hubby and I looked at each other with, "What in the world is that sound?" expressions.  We ran up to investigate and were astounded to discover that it was coming from our itty-bitty baby boy. 

That was our first clue that baby boy was not going to be anything like his older brother and sister.  He is a child of extremes.  

He certainly can't just smile for a picture.

He is either silent or yelling.  He physically cannot do an inside voice. 

He will eat four helpings of dinner or absolutely nothing. 
He is either sitting or running.  It takes everything he has to simply walk. 

He is either deliriously happy or uncontrollably angry. 

He is either completely focused on an activity or bored out of his gourd.

He is intelligent enough to skip second grade, but he has the darndest time tying his shoes properly.

He doesn't just play soccer.  He is a goalie.  And he has no qualms about launching himself in front of an opponent looking to score on him.   

He doesn't just play catch with a football.  He will attempt to catch any ball kicked or thrown.  My brothers are scared to catch footballs that my little boy will dive for.

Unfortunately for baby boy, he has the scars to go with his extreme ways.  And they're all on his face.

When he was four, he did his usual run out of the kitchen.  Misjudged his clearance, and ran smack into the counter.

There was the time he and his next-youngest brother decided to play frisbee with the empty dog dish.

No trip to the hospital, as Hubby was home alone with all of the kids.  His Doctor of Jurispudence qualified him to diagnose that a butterfly bandage would suffice.

Then The Big One.  In kindergarten he decided to jump off of a friend's swing.  His arm didn't come with him, so he fell off on the backswing.  His little head landed on a not-so-little rock and busted wide open.

Sixteen stitches and a couple of missed school days for that one.

And today a new story/scar was added.  At twelve noon I got a call from school alerting me that he had hurt himself on the playground.  Probably want to call the dentist.  Have mercy.  Not the teeth!

My boy was playing tag.  Running full tilt, he tripped and landed on the pavement, tooth first.  Broke his front tooth in half.  When the teacher asked if he found the missing piece, he replied, "It shattered.  I had to spit out a bunch of little pieces." 

I am not joking when I say that the pavement was still on his jaggedy tooth when I picked him up.  Even the dentist commented on it when he came out to talk with me.  With a grin, he said he would "clean off the parking lot" before he fixed the tooth.

With a big sigh of regret, I must confess that I did not get a photo of the injury.  I couldn't take the picture when I first saw him.  The school staff was all around.  I am not embarrased to admit that I take photos of my children before I give them comfort, but I'm not a fan of witnesses.  By the time I had a chance to take a photo, I had six cranky, hungry kids in tow, all completely thrown off schedule.  The thought of a photo completely left my head until 7 hours later when I was putting the little ones to bed. 


So, we took the "after" photo. We will patiently wait for the "before".  It's only a matter of time until that filling gets knocked out.

On a related side note, I had to take all of the kids out of school early in order to get the ten year old to the dentist.  As the nine year old was leaving his classroom, many of the kids were asking why he was leaving.  (No one but the ten year old and his class knew what had happened.)  With a straight face he tossed out, "I'm going to Florida again!"  as he walked out the door.

Have a lovely, accident-free day!

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