Claire's post made me remember this story from a few summers ago.
It all starts with Benjamin's head. You see, Ben has a very large head. His head circumference is a direct result of some maternal Lynch genes to which any descendant is willing to attest. In fact, while Ben is (in my opinion) exceptionally cute, his large head and very wee bottom allow him, when curled up, to look like he could still get back inside my tummy and do quite well.
However, his head size poses some problems. As a baby just learning to sit, and as a toddler starting to master the art of walking, Ben did a lot of falling. In fact, when he first started to sit we would often hear a clunk as he toppled over - always head first. My mother hinted that a helmet might be a good purchase. So, when the walking began, his noggin took quite the abuse.
However, his head was also a bit of a hazard to those in his immediate family. Particularly me. Any of you who have raised children, are in the process of raising children or have looked after anyone under the age of 18 months, know that babies have a habit of suddenly throwing their heads backward and violently hitting the face of the person holding them. At least my babies do. Well, when Ben did this the violence of the hit was particularly disastrous. I will not tell you how many black eyes I sustained from my little boy's head strikes. Nevertheless, each of these hits seemed timed to correspond with momentous occasions in our life or trips to the Emergency Room. Which brings me round to the story.
It was the summer of 2007 and I was very pregnant with Joseph, our fourth. That morning Ben had found his way into our bed. While I was cuddling him he whipped his head back and gave me a serious black eye. All before eight in the morning. Yes, Dave laughed. Actually, so did I when I saw myself in the mirror. I applied some Rescue Cream and proceeded with the day.
Dave decided that the beautiful weather provided him with a good opportunity to clean out the van. Dave likes to clean the van on statutory holidays. (Something about earning time and a half.) I believe this was the long weekend in August. While the cleaning commenced, the three little ones played happily in the backyard. However, as the cleaning proceeded, Dave failed to notice that our normally cautious 16 month-old Benjamin had crawled into the van. His whereabouts were revealed when we came running to find him screaming and crying in the driveway. He had toppled out of the van head first onto the gravel driveway. And, of course, he had split his head open. We decided that a trip to the hospital was necessary and I was elected to bring the wounded one.
So, I grabbed a stash of granola bars and a bottle and headed to the local hospital. Ben slept through the wait (it was naptime, after all) and woke when we were ushered into the pediatric cubicle. (Pediatric cubicle=Winnie the Pooh stickers pasted on wall). By this point I had remembered the black eye and secretly prayed that no one would notice my injury. I kept trying to squint and look at the floor so as not to draw attention to my eye. I suppose that I thought that a very pregnant tummy, a toddler with a head wound and a black eye were a fine recipe for further investigation by the ER staff. The doctor arrived and began his assessment. At this point, I was sitting on the table holding Ben in my arms. Apparently this would not do. The doctor asked if I could please lie down, hold Ben on top of me and allow him to shine a really huge (and revealing) light in the vicinity of my face. Ahhhh. If they hadn't noticed the eye by this point surely the light would complete the exposition. The light was positioned and the doctor screwed up his eyes a little and continued his inspection of Ben. Stitches were administered and we were sent on our way.
And, no one asked me anything!
I am still unsure what our hospital chart says but I imagine the fact that the doctor himself had seven kids might have helped my plight.
So, we got away with it that time. But the next black eye (also administered by Ben) came at an even more inopportune moment. Two days before Joseph's birth. For anyone who is unfamiliar with the cycle of bruising, two days allows sufficient time for the black eye to become truly black.
Consequently, I birthed our fourth child looking a bit like I had survived the Stanley Cup playoffs. I tried to ensure that all the hospital shots were taken at a good angle but Dave is not always agreeable. (Don't let his smile deceive you.) I mistakenly thought that I would be left unquestioned about the eye as the ER staff of the same small hospital had done an admirable job of ignoring my previous abuse.
Obstetrical nurses are more inquisitive.
On the second day of my stay (when Dave was not present), my nurse, with grave concern, asked, "Now, please don't feel that I'm being pushy; but, is that a black eye or are you just really tired?"
I suppose that I could have legitimately answered, "Both."
I began by searching the net for a suitable recipe. Ideally I would love an inedible, entirely toxic recipe that would somehow prevent little hands from placing gobs of play dough into eager mouths. This propensity for eating play dough was the main reason for my banning of the vile substance from our home 4 years ago. Hannah played quietly with her p.d., rolling it into flat sheets out of which she would cut pretty shapes and make scenes that warmed her mother's heart. Jacob pretended to do the same. When I was looking. When I was not looking, he stuffed as much of the salty dough into his mouth as he could manage. When he sensed my gaze, he would attempt to perfect his poker face but one of his eyebrows would inevitably arch upwards while the corners of his mouth would turn downwards and I would demand that he empty his mouth. He would open his jaw and red, purple and blue spit would drip onto the table followed by wet mounds of goo. Thus, I swore off the stuff. Until this morning.
