Concussion

Your first day of school, of grade three, and I get a phone call at 1:10 telling me you hit the ground and your nose won’t stop bleeding. Your dad was home and at that moment, the sky opened up and it was pouring pouring pouring rain. We drove to the school and I knew as soon as you saw me the tears would come.

You poor thing. A cold cloth on your nose, an ice pack on your forehead, your red sweatshirt covered in blood. One look at me and your sweet blue eyes teared and the lip came out and you were in my arms, on my lap and I just held you, my sweet sweet baby.

You ran out at recess, ran around the corner and bumped into Bobby, a huge 8th grader, bounced off him and hit the gravel, face first. So grateful you were wearing your ballcap because you would have needed stitches. We carried you to the car, tucked you in under a blanket and you cried you were so cold. We tucked you in at home, so worried about your poor head, your poor bruise and after I began washing your face you ran to the bathroom crying because you didn’t want to throw up, crying to me ‘i don’t want to throw up’ and i held you carefully, told you to lean over and go ahead and get it all out. and you did. A lot of blood. Dad came in and I called the doctor and we took you to the emergency.

Concussion.

You poor poor babe.

You took the next day off school, stayed home with me.

And you were fine.

Sigh.

love you

 

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