Sep
4
How can I thank you guys enough for your amazing comments? I kept finding myself making this grimacey half-smiling, half-sniffling trembly-lipped face while reading some of the stories you shared, and occasionally letting out a horrified little bark of laughter. Oh, what awful, awful moments we’ve all dealt with, and what a relief it is to be reminded once again that I’m never alone in this overwhelming parenting business.
Dylan is fine and we have moved on to the whistling-in-the-dark stage of cracking jokes about his banged-up little face. “What’s up, Bruiser?” we say, tickling his belly. “Should have seen the other guy, right?”
Seriously: thank you. So much. It helped more than I can say.
Poor little bunny.
Still cute, though.
Also still cute.
LESS CUTE.
Sep
3
I was just walking in from the backyard when I heard JB saying “Oh no, oh god, oh shit” and I saw him running out the open front door and just beyond him I could see the stroller lying on its side and Dylan was screaming, screaming, screaming. I ran and I may have been screaming something myself and Dylan’s legs were kicking from where he was strapped in the stroller’s seat and one wheel was still turning but instead of being on the ground it was turning in the air and JB was pulling the stroller up and getting Dylan out and his little face was bleeding and Riley was still bent over the stroller trying to help and Riley was scared and I was sobbing and I knew for certain our baby had a shattered arm or worse.
I hugged him against my body and I stood inside the house crying all over his soft hair while he buried his face in my chest and I held him out for a second and his eyes were frightened and hurt and his cheek had a bright red droplet of blood and the right side of his face was scraped and turning red and a dark shadow of a bruise was already starting to appear.
We checked him over and he wound down to a sorrowful snuffle and nothing appeared to be broken. JB put some Neosporin on him and we fed him bananas and yogurt with a little blackberry jam and oatmeal and he devoured it all and grinned at us. I put him on the floor to play for a while then I rocked him and gave him a bottle and kissed him a lot and put him to bed as usual and his sleepy little banged-up face tore a hole in my heart.
It was my fault. We were getting ready to go for a walk and I left the stroller on the top step of our front porch, unlocked, while I went back in to feed the dog. Riley walked out the front and went to innocently (and probably clumsily) push the stroller towards the driveway and it toppled off the step and fell over and Dylan’s face connected directly with our exposed aggregate walkway.
I don’t know how he didn’t get hurt more than he did.
There is a word for how I feel about the whole accident, but I’m not sure what it is. Terrible doesn’t quite cover it. Guilty seems too mild. I suppose I learned a valuable lesson — always, always lock the fucking stroller — but oh, god. Who actually fails the “keep baby from falling headfirst onto hard surfaces” parenting directive? It’s right up there in the top no-shitter, easy-do responsibilities: FEED BABY, OCCASIONALLY REMOVE FILTH FROM BABY, DO NOT ALLOW BABY TO SMASH INTO CONCRETE.
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