The boy buss him head. Nasty.
Last night he was in his crib grumbling, not quite ready to fall asleep, but getting there. Most nights I will leave him there, and let him slowly wind down. Some nights I will let him out for another little play to burn off the extra energy.
Last night, I took him for a little tour around the house.
So he was doing his do, running around the room and up and down the corridor. Both Mummy and I were keeping an eye on him, and I literally took my eye off of him for one second and heard a huge THUNK!
When my head swung around, I saw Dayo get up with his hand to his head, and his faced screwed up, sucking in enough breath to cry.
When I took the three steps to where he was and picked him up, pulling his hand away so I could see… BLOOD. filling up the cut and overflowing, the running, flowing, in rivulets… copious amounts of blood. My heart and stomach in my nose, Jomo and I had to try and calm him down and hold him down at the same time, while his blood ran like a river into the bedsheets and his hair. His fingers grew slippery from him grabbing the cut and blood smearing, and him rubbing it everywhere…. the paper towel we were pressing to the wound soaked through in a frightening amount of time. The blood ran into his eyes, his ears, soaked his hair, and I watched as my mother fought to clean the wound and dress it, I realised we were on a hopeless mission.
The child was so strong, it took the two of us to hold him to even get anywhere and as soon as my mother got some crude butterfly stitches done, his little hand escaped my grip and pulled it off.
We had to wait until he calmed down and fell asleep before we could do anything with it. Fortunately he was exhausted and the shock of hurting himself, and the emotional exhausting of the screaming and crying (both extreme at the time) conspired to knock him out.
I had wanted to leave immediately to take him to the doctor, but my mother began a campaign for me to leave it until morning. I KNEW in my head and heart I should have left with him then and there. Yet, my mother began to tell everyone there (my brother&singquot;s bandmates) and to my grandmother on the phone how I was being silly, and working myself into a state. She said I needed to calm down, and that if in the morning I still wanted to go to the doctor, then we would go.
After the house was quiet, I sat on the steps, smoking and crying. I fleetingly blamed myself, as though I could have prevented it. I said to myself, “I should NEVER have taken him out his crib.” Like that is what caused him to fall and buss his coconut. In the end, I decided THAT was being silly, because this was bound to happen at some point with a child like Mr. Lord.
It was not a restful night, as I spent it with one ear cocked listening for his discomfort. He cried in his sleep, and I gave him some children&singquot;s Panadol, but he slept through it and woke in the morning crying in pain and discomfort. Poor little fella.
We were at the doctor&singquot;s at their 8am opening time. In fact, we were there at 7:50am, (and there were already people there, doh geh tie up.)
Of course, the doctor said we should have brought him right away. I was so pissed. I KNEW I should have listened to what my belly was telling me instead of listening to my mother.
He got fixed up though, and as you can see is now living with HUGE white bandage on his head. He spent most of the day in bed yesterday, without hardly a peep. He watched cartoons and ate sparingly, and took his medicine with little to no complaint.
During one of his rare floortime sessions yesterday, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and touched his white bandage with curiosity, but after a sharp &singquot;No, don&singquot;t touch!” he completely lost interest in it, and has not even interfered with it since then. At least not so I saw.
He&singquot;s here tearing it up on the floor, so this little note must come to an end.