Yesterday afternoon, I drove to Indianapolis with a new friend to meet the lovely Bossy. As I do every time I’m away, I left instructions for the babysitter, a list of things to do for my daughter, and a note to my husband to read when he got home from work.
I made dinner and put it in the Crock Pot and straightened up the house. All my ducks were in a row. Until the moment we got to our hotel.
I barely had time to put my bag down, when my cell phone rang. On the other end was my nine year old daughter, screaming hysterically, “Mommy!!! Mommy!!! MOMMY!!!” When she finally took a breath, she was able to tell me her brother was badly hurt. I didn’t know what happened, but I did know that my daughter would not have such a reaction if it wasn’t serious.
There I was, three hours from home and my kids needed their Mommy. “Hello guilt? It’s me, Momo.” All I could do was urgently tell her to call her Dad (who luckily was on his way home from work). I hung up and phoned the sitter’s parents, who live two doors away. Then I
freaked out sat and waited a few minutes before calling back to find out my son’s finger had been slammed in a door, and that the tip of it was gone.
All of these wonderful bloggers had to watch me sit with clenched teeth and buttcheeks, in anticipation of my husband’s report from the hospital. Once I
drank four Coronas talked to my son on the phone, after his skin and fingernail had been stitched back on, I was able to relax…just a little.
I intentionally left this out of focus to hide my swollen, puffy eyes, and mascara which had dripped onto my shirt. That’s me in the middle, with the fake smile.
After two hours of sleep, we got up at 4:45 this morning, to get home to my son. And, even though my neighbors and my husband cleaned up most of the blood. I found this where they peeled his skin from the door jamb.
I’m never leaving home again.