Thursday, July 15, 2010

The Boy Who Thought He Could Fly

Finalizing photo images on the blog post, I hit 'publish post' and waited.


A moment passed before I realized the sound had occurred.  It came from the stairwell in front of me.  Hubby immediately stood from his post on the far end of the sectional, his long purposeful strides bringing him to the top of the stairs just as the screaming began.

"What the he__," came his automatic response.

I jumped up.  Before I reached the top of the stairs, however, Meiners came stumbling up and fell, sobbing, into my arms.  His mouth agape, tears staining his cheeks, his hand clawed at the skin at his hair.

As the story would unfold, beanbags lay in wait at the bottom of the stairs.  Meiners, having been sent to bed under no uncertain terms for the last time, eyed the soft, billowy cushion of temptation approximately half-way into his descent.  Six steps from the bottom, he paused.  Inhaled.  And leapt.  Immediately, his forehead impaled the I-beam above the bottom of the stairwell.

At first glance, the goose egg had begun to form, but there was no laceration.  No blood.  Just a crease.  An indentation about half an inch below the hairline.  But gradually, gradually red seeped into the space.  And quickly the mommy brain took over the mommy body. 

I phoned the exchange and scribbled a litany of symptoms.  As the mom, I knew I would be in charge of analyzing them over the course of the next 72 hours.  Four Meltaway Tylenol later, he wouldn't settle down to fall asleep.  Symptom #4.  His ear began to throb. Was that a symptom?  Made mental note. 

The next morning, after waking Meiners several times through the night - once asking him, "What's the cat's name? ... This cat right here," I tossed the cat toward his sleeping body.

"Obi."  Sweet sleepy boy gurgled with his eyes peacefully shut.

"No, Meinie, that's the dog's name.  What's the cat's name?"  I asked again, lifting the dead weight of his hand and allowing it to plop onto the back of the less-than-pleased-by-the-late-night-attention kitty.

Eyes open a slit.  I'm pretty sure he's glaring.  "Obi."  He insisted. 

"Dammit Meiners, I'm trying to sleep," a voice came from the opposite side of the room.  "What's the cat's name.  Answer Boy," he continued, waking a little more with every bubble of the sleep-deprived, harmless anger.

Repeat above.

"I mean Benn."


When I called the doctor later that day, I shared that Meiners wouldn't go under the water in the pool.  His ear throbbed throughout the day.  She insisted I bring him right in.

Fine by me.  What could the possibility of blood in the middle ear mean?  Really, the sight of the injury looked like a cat scratch.  No bruise.  No bump.  The child has a head of steel.  But a mother worries.  What could it be?

Apparently, an ear infection.  Completely unrelated to The Spirit of St. Louis.

Today, he's fine.  On his second full day of antibiotic.  Bean bags tucked safely in the closet under the stairs.  By daddy.  Who rewarded the sleepless mommy with a nice large cup of icee mocha.

Gotta love that daddy.
Gotta love the boy who thought he could fly.

And gotta thank God for the angels who kissed away the boom.  Even after they momentarily gave him wings.
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