Two little monkeys were jumping on the bed, one fell off and broke his... elbow. I know it doesn't rhyme, but sometimes life has a way of just... well, not rhyming. The other day( I forget which, they all tend to blur together into a kaleidoscope of popsicles, ibuprofen and corn-dogs), Jack and Mitch were jumping on Jack's bed. Now, you all know from my previous blogs that I am a hands-on mother who considers safety control one of the most important aspects of my day, so I just don't know how Jack could've possibly gotten hurt!
Okay. That was a blatant lie, and I already feel guilty. Hmm, maybe guilty isn't quite right. More like disappointed? Nope, that's not it, either. Hungry?
Regardless of my emotional state, I need to set the record straight (THAT rhymed!), I spent the first half of the day ready to open a can on either one of the boys for jumping on EVERYTHING! They jumped on the couch, the chair, the bed and each other while I turned blue in the face from yelling. I was a seething, wild-eyed woman twitching on the edge of a meltdown. I had actually gotten to the point of purposefully ignoring them just to save their lives. They had several near death experiences that they weren't even aware of, so I went to the back bedroom to iron their church clothes and meditate on the condition of my soul. I was so angry that I didn't even put the iron down when I heard a tremendously loud thump followed by a scream. In my defense, I was on the last sleeve and seconds away from being completely done. I remember thinking, I need to finish this before I walk away or else I'll leave the iron on all night and burn the house down. Plus, I was giving the injured party a chance to come up with a likely story that would melt the ice around my cold, cold heart.
Jack came into the kitchen at the same time as I came out of the back room, and I could tell right away that it wasn't good. He was pasty white, panting and guarding his arm and as soon as he saw me he said he was going to be sick. So, I laid him on the couch and started a movie while I got ibuprofen and band aids. The band aids were a last ditch effort to calm him down, kind of like a sugar pill to someone with a headache. Sometimes it really works; he thinks he's dying but as soon as you put a band aid on the "injury", he has a miraculous recovery and all is well. Needless to say, it didn't work this time. He went glassy eyed and said he was freezing instead of running off to jump on something else. That was my cue to call Jordan home from work. We were going to the E.R.!
The doctor at the hospital was very cool, he spoke to Jack about the consequences of not heeding a mother's warning, he made Jack sing the song about the monkeys on the bed, and he brought us to his office to show Jack all of his x-rays and explain exactly how he was injured. Jack was somewhat bummed out that there weren't any pictures of his skull, and when the doctor explained that since he hadn't hurt his head they couldn't order any, Jack offer to hit himself in the old noggin just to comply. No pain is too great to pass up the opportunity for a skull x-ray to hang on the wall.
That night was one of the longest in history. I barely made it to the pharmacy in time to fill the prescription for Jack's pain medication, and I cannot imagine how much worse off we'd be if we hadn't of gotten it. He was in misery trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep and he always woke up crying at least an hour before he could have his next dose. But when the drugs kicked in... whoa. Good stuff, man. People tell me that Jack is a funny kid, and I can honestly say that he is even funnier when he's high. If there is anything more entertaining than watching Jack watch Avenger's when he's on codeine, I haven't found it yet. He kept saying things like "What the shmeow?" and "I don't remember that part!". When the movie couldn't hold his attention, I watched him blow raspberries for 3 full minutes. That's a long time for someone over the age of 2, so I think he was feeling pretty good.
Bedtime was awful, however. I was up with him from midnight, trying to keep him calm and quiet, until 2:00 a.m. when I could give another dose of tylenol with codeine. I could see the exact moment when it worked it's magic, though. He stopped crying and immediately became completely absorbed in watching the hand on his uninjured arm slowly open and close. Suddenly, he blurts out in his best 5 year old quiet voice "Whoa! Wook at that, Mommy! My arm isn't broken!" to which I replied in my best quietly chortling voice "Yes, dear. It's your OTHER arm that is broken.". That poor, sweet, stoned baby boy looked down at the arm in the sling and said "Huh. Oh yeah." and instantly fell asleep. Drugs so good, you forget that you have TWO arms.
The next morning the top of my head almost exploded in a fiery mess of insanity when I walked around the corner to see Mitch jumping on Jack's bed. I wasn't even sure I spoke English when I told him to get down, I think it was more the language of basic rage. Jack innocently and patiently explained the situation thusly; "Mom. He just jumping on the bed. Mitch is more careful than me." Whaa? How did Mitch come away looking like the careful one??? All I can think is that Jack had been through a traumatic experience and had drugs in his system. There's no other reason he would say such a thing.
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