Feb 2, 2011
So today I pick up The Boy from school and because I am on the phone long distance checking on a friend who had hip surgery I don't notice the principal on the other side of my rolled up window. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"The Boy had a little accident."
I assumed since the above statement wasn't followed by, "and the paramedics are on their way" or "he is being transported by EMS to the ER as we speak" that he was fine.
I'm old. I'm an experienced pediatric nurse. I am completely brain dead so I generally don't panic at much of anything. I did as a young woman/nurse but I've aged. Like the petrified forest, the older i get the more it takes to rattle my branches.
So as we walk to the clinic where he is being held I hear the story of someone pushing him down in the bathroom. A bathroom that The Boy was not supposed to be in and he hit his head because of this. Remember those words. "he was not supposed to be in."
I am immediately relieved that it was a blow to the head because the kid has a head like a cinder block. Yes, I know he has OI type #3 and yes he had skull fractures as an infant in the hospital but he has hit his head so many times over the past 11 years that he has a calcified hematoma on his forehead. And talk about learning something new every day! I never knew that hematomas could calcify until his precious pediatrician pointed it out. What a patient man he is.
After the 3rd or 4th blow to the head in toddler hood ( because The Boy thinks he's Evil Knievel), the Pediatrician quit sending me for skull x-rays because they were always negative. I devised a safety rule for school and sitters at this point.
If there is a lump on his head, apply ice and observe. If there is a dent on his head call 911.
It has served us well.
So I see The Boy standing in the clinic with an ice pack on his head and his beloved, saintly teacher, Mrs Needs-To-Be-Canonized at his side. He has a tiny little puncture wound on his head that bled like he had been decapitated. I told Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized that head wounds always bleed profusely and once you wade through that blood you're usually surprised by the smallness of the actual wound. She informs me her boys head wounds never bled like this. I reminded her they probably weren't as hyperactive as The Boy.
I left school feeling sorry for the teacher and the principal. I told my family if I was offered a million dollars a year to teach I would prefer to live in poverty.
I never even asked who pushed The Boy down because it didn't matter to me.
On the way home, however, I got the entire story from The Boy. It seems Attila pushed him down. "You mean Attila who I've warned you to stay away from because he is very, very strong and doesn't realize his own strength ?" I have to say at this point that I just love Attila. He's like a giant bull of a boy. Sweet as a teddy bear and as strong as an ox.
The Boy, however, wants to slam Attila for pushing him. I am not buying it.
"Let's get to the point shall we? You were in a bathroom used my the older kids that you were not allowed in and this is when you encountered Attila?"
"So you were injured basically because you disobeyed because if you had not disobeyed you would not have encountered Attila? Correct?'
He had to admit it. Ah Ha! Victory! Only in my mind, of course, but victory nevertheless.
So then I launch into my obedience vs disobedience speech and all the while I hear The Boy's Big City behavioral therapist ringing in my head like a bad case of nausea inducing tinnitus..."WHY ARE YOU INSISTENT ON USING LOGIC WITH THE BOY? HE WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND LOGIC! NEVER!"
Of course the man is correct. When you adopt special needs children with reactive attachment disorders, oppositional defiant personalities, birth traumas, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, they really do not respond like children nurtured and bonded since minute one. And you can't make them respond like children nurtured and bonded since minute one. Big Mama will tell you that!
So we change the subject.
Did Mrs. Needs-To-Be Canonized wear gloves in all of that blood?" You know the nurse in me HAS to know.
"No, " he replies "She's not smart like that."
And with that statement I began whooping like a lunatic. I cannot stop whooping with laughter. And because he loves Mrs. Needs-To-Be-Canonized he adds, "you know she has no nursing experience."
No nursing experience? Did those grown up words actually come out of The Boy's mouth?
Who cares? Bwaaaahahahahahahha! I whoop whooped even louder. I was whooping like a Pertussis victim. I could hardly breathe. Whoop!
So we change the subject again. "You know Boy...if we were pioneers and you were a Native American your name would be, "Head Like Rock."
He likes this. "What would the Teenagers name be!"
You mean the teenager who has just had a colossal melt down in the school parking lot because she hasn't been the same since yesterdays yet again horrible seizure?
"The Baby?" he squeals.
"Happy Feather!" Although I have to admit since we have been weaning The Baby off of the Phenobarbital "Squirrel on Crack " would probably be more fitting.
At this point I'm stumped. The only words that come to mind are "crazy" and "babbling."
"Babbling Brook." I reply.
I have to explain that a brook is like a small stream. The pee problem comes to mind.
"And babbling?" he inquires.
"That's what crazy people do."
Thanks to Head Like Rock, Grumpy Bull and Happy Feather
Posted by SECRET PEPPER PERSON: at Wednesday, February 02, 2011