I was all poised and ready, with my abundance of time, to sit down and write a heartfelt post about breastfeeding and attachment parenting. I had set aside the entire evening.
Ike decided to get himself caught in the dog crate and rip his toenail halfway off! He’s fine now, Mickey Mouse bandaid and a bottle without any attempts to swap it for a cup.
I was sitting closest to him, so obviously I feel like an enormous ass because I have no idea what happened. I was typing an email or something, and telling him to stop playing in the cage, knowing full well he would not, because he’s one and because he’s Ike. Then there was that petrified scream followed by a long silence, accompanied by an ever purpling face and you know what’s coming. That blood curdling howl and instant tears. Mommy-guilt overload in that instant.
My husband kept asking me what happened and, in my grand award-winning parenting fashion, I just stared blankly back at him because “I dunno I wasn’t actually looking at him at that moment”. Then he demanded to know what to do about the horrifying toe nail (it’s not that bad, I promise), I suggested ice, and he suggested Tylenol and then asked if ice is that the internet recommends. And I snarkily respond, “I don’t know why don’t you look it up on the internet”.
How was he less than two feet away from me and I didn’t even know what he hurt until there was blood? Dude, parenting is hard!
So now I have a hurt baby and an angry husband. I am batting a 1000 here anybody else want to take a swing?
Instead of my deeply poetic post about my boobs, slings, and essential oils; I am going to have a cup of tea, pretend it is wine, and put myself to bed early before I hurt anyone else.