We’ve have been doing a FAIRLY OKAY job of keeping my baby safe from injury. There was that time he fell tooth-first onto the leg of the Ottoman and there was blood everywhere. That was terrible. There was the time he got what seemed like food poisoning and, after hours of barfing up bile, he perked up and started keeping fluids down just as I was about to take him to the emergency room. There was that time(s) I clipped his thumbnail and missed. There was that time he tackled Buster the Cat, and Buster gave almost as good as he got. But, considering what a death trap our home and the world are, and considering Charlie’s blatant disregard for the force of gravity, he has, so far, kept himself from many an injury.
He does, however, wail on me and his dad on a fairly regular basis. Last night might have been the most impressive attack he’s mounted thus far. As I was struggling to change his diaper, he reaches for the tube of Burt’s Bees diaper ointment (which is a miraculous product, by the way), grabbed it by the base, and swiped the sharp top corner across my face, slicing open my jaw. Not like Lewis Powell attacking Secretary Seward-style; it was far less dramatic. He did not shout, “From hell’s heart, I stab at thee!” But, considering my assailant was not yet nine months old, I marveled at the impact of his swipe.
The night before, he had taken an over-the-shirt chomp at the nipples of both me and Andy, and bit his grandad’s ankle. Over the last week, Andy and I have endured numerous head butts to the nose; once, Charlie even made Andy’s nose bleed. Charlie recently made my nose bleed when he bit the tip of it. We’ve been gouged in the eyes, had earrings pulled from our earlobes, been kicked in the crotches, and we’ll not even make mention of the nasty hair-pulling that’s transpired. And every time, as we lay dying, Charlie continues to laugh at our misery. And so do we. Even as we’re sitting there bleeding, it’s usually still pretty funny to us that he thinks our injuries are so funny. (Except for last night’s jaw-slicing. That sucked.)
As much as I dislike bleeding from the face, better me than him. If we can keep this trend up, where we are the injured ones and he thinks it’s funny, I’ll be okay with it. I know we’re probably going to have to take him to the emergency room two dozen times before he hits kindergarten, but I’ll deal with that later. Right now I need to go find a Band-Aide for my jaw.
UPDATE: Before I had a chance to caption this post and put it up on the internet, I heard “Ah, FUCK!” from the living room, and Charlie giggling. I ran out to see if everything was okay. Andy was, in fact, bleeding from the face, in two spots, as a result of Charlie trying to scratch his eyes out.
So I’m going to go look for three Band-Aides.