"Hello out there. Anyone. Can someone call an ambulance, I'm in quite a lot of pain."
Bedtime is a struggle in our house. That’s not surprising since we have three kids who like to do their own thing, and none of those things involve sleeping. When it’s time to get ready for bed, I can count on the kids to scatter throughout the house like stars in the solar system, determined to maximize the light years between them and anybody who might drag them to bed. I have a hard enough time laying my body in bed; I don’t know why it would be different laying my offspring in bed.
Such was the case Saturday night. I pulled all three children into their bedroom. I pulled out the book bin to entertain them. The television was off. The refrigerator was locked. The cats were still huddled downstairs in terror. They had no reason to leave the room.
I lifted Ian onto the changing table to dress him for bed, and the other two promptly left the room. Tory wandered into the living room to play with the toys he’d ignored for most of the day. Abbie strolled into the kitchen, searching for food left within her reach.
Dressing a child for bed is a multi-minute process, much of that time spent without a diaper. I’ve found it’s best to finish dressing a child before answering another one’s cries. I need to cover those orifices with a diaper before they leak, and then I need to cover the diaper with pajamas before someone, probably Abbie, pulls it off. By the time I zip up the pajamas, the complaining child usually quiets anyway after moving onto a different toy or discovering a long-forgotten Fruit Ring.
When Abbie started crying as I removed Ian’s diaper, I didn’t pay much attention even though I heard something fall. She probably just knocked something on the floor, and was frustrated that a cream filling hadn’t spilled out.
When Abbie’s crying hit the “I’m in pain” level as I strapped on Ian’s new diaper, I didn’t pay much attention. She’d probably wedged herself behind the table trying to reach a fallen raisin’s final resting place.
When Abbie’s crying hit the “I’m very badly injured” level as I zipped up Ian’s pajamas, I started to get concerned. I set Ian on the ground and hurried into the kitchen. Sure enough, she was on the ground under the table, but she wasn’t pinned. She was just screaming in pain.
I quickly figured out that she’d fallen off the counter trying to reach some food. Most likely, she lost her balance while standing on the back of a chair. My initial fear was that she’d landed wrong on an extremity, but from the way she held her hands over her lips, she’d obviously hurt her mouth. Plus, the blood pouring from her mouth was a pretty good clue of the injury’s location.
It took a minute to calm her down to the point I could examine her mouth. I spent the time singing and holding her while searching for something better to catch the blood than one of our shirts. I found a burp cloth as the screaming backed away from frantic, and checked her mouth. I was afraid that she’d knocked a tooth out or maybe badly cut her tongue. After a little medical training-free probing, I found the source of the bleeding on the inside of her cheek. I looked like she’d bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and opened up a sizable wound when she landed. Good, I didn’t have to worry about reattaching a tooth or part of her tongue. I just had to worry about possibly getting her stitches. At 9:30pm. On the night before Easter.
I held a couple different burp cloths on the wound to create pressure as best I could on a sub-three-year-old. Over the next 15 minutes, I watched the bleeding go from terrifying, to alarming, to disturbing, to abundant, to manageable, to pinkish, to almost nothing.
Convinced that she wouldn’t need stitches, we finished the bedtime routine. I gave her a dose of ibuprofen instead of toothpaste, but otherwise the bedtime routine was the same. There was no sense upsetting her night anymore than it already was.
She fell asleep relatively well that night, possibly worn out from the all the agitation. I did a few things in the aftermath to manage the situation. First, I threw her blood-soaked shirt in the wash immediately after shutting the door, and succeeded to washing away the considerable blood stains. Next, I gave her another dose of ibuprofen when she woke up six hours later. Then, I watched the wound over the next several days to make sure it didn’t become infected. It swelled up the next day like, well, like somebody had popped her in the mouth. The swelling went down as time passed, and it looks like we’re in the clear.
Finally, and this is the important one, I’ve upgraded “standing on the chair” from “bad idea” to “major no-no.” I don’t think my stern warnings have sunk in yet. Even more disturbingly, Tory has started climbing on the chair. At least he can’t climb onto the chair back yet.
Such was the case Saturday night. I pulled all three children into their bedroom. I pulled out the book bin to entertain them. The television was off. The refrigerator was locked. The cats were still huddled downstairs in terror. They had no reason to leave the room.
I lifted Ian onto the changing table to dress him for bed, and the other two promptly left the room. Tory wandered into the living room to play with the toys he’d ignored for most of the day. Abbie strolled into the kitchen, searching for food left within her reach.
Dressing a child for bed is a multi-minute process, much of that time spent without a diaper. I’ve found it’s best to finish dressing a child before answering another one’s cries. I need to cover those orifices with a diaper before they leak, and then I need to cover the diaper with pajamas before someone, probably Abbie, pulls it off. By the time I zip up the pajamas, the complaining child usually quiets anyway after moving onto a different toy or discovering a long-forgotten Fruit Ring.
When Abbie started crying as I removed Ian’s diaper, I didn’t pay much attention even though I heard something fall. She probably just knocked something on the floor, and was frustrated that a cream filling hadn’t spilled out.
When Abbie’s crying hit the “I’m in pain” level as I strapped on Ian’s new diaper, I didn’t pay much attention. She’d probably wedged herself behind the table trying to reach a fallen raisin’s final resting place.
When Abbie’s crying hit the “I’m very badly injured” level as I zipped up Ian’s pajamas, I started to get concerned. I set Ian on the ground and hurried into the kitchen. Sure enough, she was on the ground under the table, but she wasn’t pinned. She was just screaming in pain.
I quickly figured out that she’d fallen off the counter trying to reach some food. Most likely, she lost her balance while standing on the back of a chair. My initial fear was that she’d landed wrong on an extremity, but from the way she held her hands over her lips, she’d obviously hurt her mouth. Plus, the blood pouring from her mouth was a pretty good clue of the injury’s location.
It took a minute to calm her down to the point I could examine her mouth. I spent the time singing and holding her while searching for something better to catch the blood than one of our shirts. I found a burp cloth as the screaming backed away from frantic, and checked her mouth. I was afraid that she’d knocked a tooth out or maybe badly cut her tongue. After a little medical training-free probing, I found the source of the bleeding on the inside of her cheek. I looked like she’d bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and opened up a sizable wound when she landed. Good, I didn’t have to worry about reattaching a tooth or part of her tongue. I just had to worry about possibly getting her stitches. At 9:30pm. On the night before Easter.
I held a couple different burp cloths on the wound to create pressure as best I could on a sub-three-year-old. Over the next 15 minutes, I watched the bleeding go from terrifying, to alarming, to disturbing, to abundant, to manageable, to pinkish, to almost nothing.
Convinced that she wouldn’t need stitches, we finished the bedtime routine. I gave her a dose of ibuprofen instead of toothpaste, but otherwise the bedtime routine was the same. There was no sense upsetting her night anymore than it already was.
She fell asleep relatively well that night, possibly worn out from the all the agitation. I did a few things in the aftermath to manage the situation. First, I threw her blood-soaked shirt in the wash immediately after shutting the door, and succeeded to washing away the considerable blood stains. Next, I gave her another dose of ibuprofen when she woke up six hours later. Then, I watched the wound over the next several days to make sure it didn’t become infected. It swelled up the next day like, well, like somebody had popped her in the mouth. The swelling went down as time passed, and it looks like we’re in the clear.
Finally, and this is the important one, I’ve upgraded “standing on the chair” from “bad idea” to “major no-no.” I don’t think my stern warnings have sunk in yet. Even more disturbingly, Tory has started climbing on the chair. At least he can’t climb onto the chair back yet.
posted by Matt at
11:12 PM
1 Comments:
I am so glad it wasn't anything serious. That is so scary when they are bleeding from the mouth and crying so hard you can't get in there to investigate.
My son got bit in the face by a dog when he was one ... lost his front tooth. So sad. I remember being devastated, though it didn't really matter in the long run, I guess. Could have been MUCH worse.
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Anonymous, at 12:32 PM
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