I Pinch
I pinched Tory’s fingers in a door again. This is at least the second time I’ve pinched his fingers in a door in the past couple months. I’m hoping he learns to keep his fingers out of doorways soon. Considering that I haven’t yet learned to watch out for his fingers when shutting a door, maybe my hopes are too high.
I pinched them almost at the end of their day, right when they’re supposed to be winding down for a night of restful, whimper-free sleeping. After tooth brushings, I was trying to herd everyone out of the bathroom and into the bedroom for the remainder of the bedtime routine. Herding toddlers through the house when bedtime nears is a lot like herding cats toward the car when a veterinarian visit nears, the difference being cats are generally more appreciative of your good intentions.
To herd children out of the bathroom at night, I stand at the back of the group and walk forward as the slowest child moves toward the door. The kids can move at a variety of speeds, with each choosing a different velocity to impede bedtime. Sometimes children will run out the door into the farthest reaches of the house, playing sweetly and quietly to avoid detection and to encourage me to bask in their innocence when I discover them instead of rushing them to bed. Sometimes children will linger in the bathroom, giving their teeth an extra brush, their hands an extra wash, and their bedtime an extra minute’s reprieve. I encourage the stragglers to leave, giving the trailblazers time to roam the house unsupervised, content that I’ll be able to lock them in the bedroom in a minute.
The boys took their sweet time last night. Tory would take a step; I’d take a step. Ian would take a step; I’d take another step. Tory would take two steps; I’d stand still because I’m still waiting for Ian. Finally Ian took the requisite three steps to leave the room, and I slowly closed the door behind us, careful to watch Ian so I didn’t shut the door on his feet.
Unfortunately I wasn’t careful to watch Tory so I didn’t shut the door on his fingers. He was standing in the hallway, fingers wrapped around the doorframe for balance. When I shut the door, the hinge side pinched his fingers in the frame. Tory immediately screamed in pain, and I opened the door. When he continued howling, I knew exactly what to do: I handed him to mommy while I finished preparing everyone else for bed.
Several minutes later, mommy returned Tory to me, still screaming, but with assurances that nothing was broken. We gave him a dose of acetaminophen, and read their bedtime books while waiting for the medicine to kick in and Tory to calm down.
Many minutes and bedtime books later, Tory was still screaming. I could calm him with extra attention, but as soon as something else grabbed my attention, such as the sibling running out the bedroom door, he started screaming again. Ian didn’t help by continually trying to steal his cow blanket, his ultimate comfort item. Confident that he’d suffered no serious harm, I set him in bed, soothed him to a dull whimper, and turned out the lights.
I listened for his whimpering to fade to silence. It took about 15 minutes, but he eventually drifted to sleep. I was worried that he might have a restless night, tossing, turning, putting weight on his pinched fingers, and screaming every time. Instead he slept well, staying quiet until long after his wake time. I opened his door to find him still asleep. When I opened his door, I opened it carefully to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep with his fingers resting right next to the hinge. I like to think we’re both learning.
I pinched them almost at the end of their day, right when they’re supposed to be winding down for a night of restful, whimper-free sleeping. After tooth brushings, I was trying to herd everyone out of the bathroom and into the bedroom for the remainder of the bedtime routine. Herding toddlers through the house when bedtime nears is a lot like herding cats toward the car when a veterinarian visit nears, the difference being cats are generally more appreciative of your good intentions.
To herd children out of the bathroom at night, I stand at the back of the group and walk forward as the slowest child moves toward the door. The kids can move at a variety of speeds, with each choosing a different velocity to impede bedtime. Sometimes children will run out the door into the farthest reaches of the house, playing sweetly and quietly to avoid detection and to encourage me to bask in their innocence when I discover them instead of rushing them to bed. Sometimes children will linger in the bathroom, giving their teeth an extra brush, their hands an extra wash, and their bedtime an extra minute’s reprieve. I encourage the stragglers to leave, giving the trailblazers time to roam the house unsupervised, content that I’ll be able to lock them in the bedroom in a minute.
The boys took their sweet time last night. Tory would take a step; I’d take a step. Ian would take a step; I’d take another step. Tory would take two steps; I’d stand still because I’m still waiting for Ian. Finally Ian took the requisite three steps to leave the room, and I slowly closed the door behind us, careful to watch Ian so I didn’t shut the door on his feet.
Unfortunately I wasn’t careful to watch Tory so I didn’t shut the door on his fingers. He was standing in the hallway, fingers wrapped around the doorframe for balance. When I shut the door, the hinge side pinched his fingers in the frame. Tory immediately screamed in pain, and I opened the door. When he continued howling, I knew exactly what to do: I handed him to mommy while I finished preparing everyone else for bed.
Several minutes later, mommy returned Tory to me, still screaming, but with assurances that nothing was broken. We gave him a dose of acetaminophen, and read their bedtime books while waiting for the medicine to kick in and Tory to calm down.
Many minutes and bedtime books later, Tory was still screaming. I could calm him with extra attention, but as soon as something else grabbed my attention, such as the sibling running out the bedroom door, he started screaming again. Ian didn’t help by continually trying to steal his cow blanket, his ultimate comfort item. Confident that he’d suffered no serious harm, I set him in bed, soothed him to a dull whimper, and turned out the lights.
I listened for his whimpering to fade to silence. It took about 15 minutes, but he eventually drifted to sleep. I was worried that he might have a restless night, tossing, turning, putting weight on his pinched fingers, and screaming every time. Instead he slept well, staying quiet until long after his wake time. I opened his door to find him still asleep. When I opened his door, I opened it carefully to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep with his fingers resting right next to the hinge. I like to think we’re both learning.
posted by Matt at
10:42 PM
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