Funny thing about blood, hard to get out of stuff. Who would have thought I would find that fact out after I would be entrusted with the care of little humans. They ooze from everywhere, everything else is funny. When it’s blood, it stops being funny real quick. Also it leaves a mark most times. A very stark reminder of its presence: Of life. Of death. Of how fragile we are. Of how tough those little guys are that we keep claiming we are trying to protect, and keep safe from hurt, and harm. They just bled all over the place, and that blood won’t come off. We are trying to remove reminders of our failure, and that thing is darn tough. The failure, the success of fragility.
The success of our utter lack of control, that reminder, permanently etched in blood. It won’t come off. Well it comes off eventually, I’m being a bit too dramatic. However, those few moments it feels like it will not come off, and you will stay just bathed in your child’s blood that is pouring out of his head like you’ve turned on a faucet.
Later when you’ve controlled the situation a little bit, and you are holding his shaking body next to yours telling him that everything is going to be okay, that he is going to be okay. In your heart you are thinking of all those who have seen much deeper wounds on their children, and have not been able to comfort them. Or tell themselves that everything will be okay.
My story is simple. My story is even funny, even though blood coming out of a child is never funny. My little one was being Thor. My kid’s hammer is mightier I assure you. As we all know it strikes lightning. It struck, a little too hard. Right on his brother’s head. Two hours before our flight to a one week trip. We had to rush him to the hospital to get one stitch. It was only one stitch. Thank GOD for that. Quick trip to the ER. We continued packing and made it on time for the flight. Now every time I try to warn them about playing too rough or remind them that when one is pretending to be the bad guy, the other should not actually hit him. His brother who had an actual hole poked in his head, comes to his brother’s defense “ no, mommy he was just playing. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to hit me. He didn’t throw the pretend hammer in my direction, I moved.”
Either they are really loving brothers OR they were up to something else that day. One guess which one I’m leaning towards? Mmmhhmmm….
Anyway, that’s my story of how I now understand even more so how blood doesn’t come off as easily; metaphorically, and literally.
Journalist, CEO/Founder of Femmerang.com, Mental Health Advocate for Women, Mother. I’m trying to get by just like everyone else. It’s a bit harder because of my chosen gender, so naturally not a friend to those who have stood in my way. Rest is irrelevant!
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