End Table of Death
Here’s another proud entry for the baby book: March 15th, 2006 – Abbie suffered her first permanently disfiguring scar. She’s fine now, but was pretty ticked off at the time.
We were feeding the twins last night before putting them down. This is turning into a difficult time for Abbie because she has to amuse herself while we take care of the twins, feeding them, changing them, burping them, and marveling at how much they just spit up. It doesn’t help that we sit in a dim and quiet room, or that she’s tired and cranky at the end of the day, or that we’re tired and cranky by the end of the day for that matter. She does an admirable job of creating entertainment though. Sometimes she finds a toy to play with, creating a soft “click click click” sound to accompany the twins’ “suck suck suck.” Sometimes she sits down with a book and reads with just enough light to see emanating from the fish tank with an occasional assist from a televised sporting event. Sometimes she gives up and we sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to her for 20 minutes straight, providing accompanying hand motions as the twins allow.
Last night she was feeling independent and practiced her twirling during feeding. She practices her twirling a lot. Often times when we’re in separate rooms, I’ll check on her when her lack of noise makes me nervous that she’s eating something disgusting again, and she’ll be in the middle of the room spinning in place. I’m not sure what she’s trying to accomplish, but whether she enjoys the freedom of a newfound movement or her soul is a bottomless well of despair that only vertigo can numb, I tell her she’s silly, which usually makes her stop and smile. Then she falls down.
Last night she apparently twirled too fast, because she fell down while still spinning. Unfortunately she fell into an end table. This furniture was a hand-me-down from Ellie’s grandmother, and was given to us in our pre-child phase on the condition that we dispose of it should we ever have children. It has edges that come to a point and can pierce tender skin instead of just causing blunt trauma like most furniture. Apparently the only way it could be more dangerous is if its natural oak finish were replaced by some sort of lollipop flavoring since it’s marred more than its share of children. We stowed the matching coffee table long ago, and thought the end tables were tucked safely between softer furniture with a protective buffer of floor detritus surrounding the front. Abbie though circumvented the floor detritus before falling on the end table, striking her cheekbone.
It gave her a deep cut under the eye about as long as a nickel’s diameter. It didn’t bleed much, but it did bleed steadily enough to make us consider an ER visit, which might have happened if we didn’t have the twins to care for. Ellie patched her up with bandages leftover from her post-partum days, stuffed her with acetaminophen, and sent her to bed when we were confident that the only thing wrong with her was fatigue. She took her to the pediatrician the next morning, and he patched her up a little better, no stitches though, and gave her an antibiotic just in case. Despite looking uncomfortable, the gash hasn’t seemed to bother her since she recovered from the initial pain. Hopefully it won’t scar, but if it does we’ll always remember the exact day it happened. We’ll also always remember when we finally threw out that end table.
We were feeding the twins last night before putting them down. This is turning into a difficult time for Abbie because she has to amuse herself while we take care of the twins, feeding them, changing them, burping them, and marveling at how much they just spit up. It doesn’t help that we sit in a dim and quiet room, or that she’s tired and cranky at the end of the day, or that we’re tired and cranky by the end of the day for that matter. She does an admirable job of creating entertainment though. Sometimes she finds a toy to play with, creating a soft “click click click” sound to accompany the twins’ “suck suck suck.” Sometimes she sits down with a book and reads with just enough light to see emanating from the fish tank with an occasional assist from a televised sporting event. Sometimes she gives up and we sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to her for 20 minutes straight, providing accompanying hand motions as the twins allow.
Last night she was feeling independent and practiced her twirling during feeding. She practices her twirling a lot. Often times when we’re in separate rooms, I’ll check on her when her lack of noise makes me nervous that she’s eating something disgusting again, and she’ll be in the middle of the room spinning in place. I’m not sure what she’s trying to accomplish, but whether she enjoys the freedom of a newfound movement or her soul is a bottomless well of despair that only vertigo can numb, I tell her she’s silly, which usually makes her stop and smile. Then she falls down.
Last night she apparently twirled too fast, because she fell down while still spinning. Unfortunately she fell into an end table. This furniture was a hand-me-down from Ellie’s grandmother, and was given to us in our pre-child phase on the condition that we dispose of it should we ever have children. It has edges that come to a point and can pierce tender skin instead of just causing blunt trauma like most furniture. Apparently the only way it could be more dangerous is if its natural oak finish were replaced by some sort of lollipop flavoring since it’s marred more than its share of children. We stowed the matching coffee table long ago, and thought the end tables were tucked safely between softer furniture with a protective buffer of floor detritus surrounding the front. Abbie though circumvented the floor detritus before falling on the end table, striking her cheekbone.
It gave her a deep cut under the eye about as long as a nickel’s diameter. It didn’t bleed much, but it did bleed steadily enough to make us consider an ER visit, which might have happened if we didn’t have the twins to care for. Ellie patched her up with bandages leftover from her post-partum days, stuffed her with acetaminophen, and sent her to bed when we were confident that the only thing wrong with her was fatigue. She took her to the pediatrician the next morning, and he patched her up a little better, no stitches though, and gave her an antibiotic just in case. Despite looking uncomfortable, the gash hasn’t seemed to bother her since she recovered from the initial pain. Hopefully it won’t scar, but if it does we’ll always remember the exact day it happened. We’ll also always remember when we finally threw out that end table.
posted by Matt at
10:42 PM
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