Homecoming from Hell

It is said that Roman generals, parading through the streets in their chariots after a military victory, would have a slave next to them whose job was to whisper “Remember, thou art mortal” in the general’s ear. It was supposed to remind the generals that all things are fleeting, including victory, honor, even life itself.

I need to find one of those slaves to follow my son around, because he clearly believes he will live forever.

We came back from vacation yesterday at around 6 p.m. Had a great time, tell you about it later. We got some burritos from Taco Bell and intended to eat dinner quickly at home, reinstall the car seats, then go pick up the kids from my parents’ house.

It was not to be. No more than a minute after we walked in the door, my mother called me and said that the Sprog had jumped off the couch while playing about 10 minutes ago and wouldn’t stop crying. She thought he might have sprained or even broken his arm.

So we put the booster seat in the car (no time for Baby Girl’s seat) and dashed to Mom and Dad’s house. Baby Girl was overjoyed to see us, but the Sprog was a pitiful sight. My husband took one look at his arm, picked him up, and put him in the car to take him to the ER. I asked Mom and Dad to keep Baby Girl with them, and away we went.

The wait was mercifully short, but the whole time we waited, the Sprog was only happy when he was in my lap with me singing “You Are My Sunshine” over and over. I think he was so stressed out and worn out and hurting, the only way he could deal with it was by totally shutting down. So I sang to him, and he dozed, drooling on my chest.

We got in to see the doctor pretty quickly, got him some X-rays, and discovered that he had snapped both of the bones in his forearm. Fantastic. Once he could talk coherently, he said that he had hit his arm on Baby Girl’s Exersaucer. So there’s one good thing—we could at least sue Graco and fetch a comfortable retirement since they were so clearly negligent in issuing a product that might cause my son’s arm to break. You know, that one time when he was doing something stupid and dangerous when my mother’s back was turned for a second? Totally Graco’s fault. *rolls eyes*

But I digress. Right after the X-rays, a beautiful angel appeared next to my son’s bedside and told us all it was going to be okay. Well, okay, it was the nurse with the codeine, but close enough. Oddly enough, the Sprog perked right up after he was loaded to the gills on smack. I thought he might fall asleep for good or something, but no, he was bright-eyed and bushy tailed: “What’s that beeping sound, Mama? Why is that baby crying? Is another mommy having a baby? RIGHT NOW? Can I see it? What’s the thing on my arm? What’s a sling? Can I see my X-ray pictures? THAT WOULD BE SO COOL.” Turns out my son is a chatty drunk.

Anyhow, we got him home by 10:30, after a marathon visit to the pharmacy to get his pain meds. He clung tight to the stuffed purple monkey they gave him in the ER, which he had named “Rite-Aid ‘Giant Monkey’ Walgreens”, after the two pharmacies we had had to visit in order to get his prescriptions filled. We call the monkey Wally for short.

Undressing him for bedtime was an ordeal, and I finally had to cut his t-shirt off of him. I foresee a lot of button-down short sleeve shirts in his future. That, or I could get that Roman slave to dress him. As long as he’s making himself useful and all.