Wednesday I drove through storming, gushing rain to pick up my children, who were hanging out with some friends while I got my hair done. I was all fancy, with my hair freshly blondified, and chopped off into a new super short ‘do.
I was running late and so I hurried as much as the weather would allow. The rain fell so hard that at one point I wondered if anyone was out canoeing on the roads.
Once I got the children in the car, I was relieved and anxious to get home and out of the rain.
The Lady fell asleep in the backseat and the boys begged me to drive though the deepest puddles we could find. Being pure-hearted Texas boys, the novelty of rainy days never wears off for them.
We pulled into the driveway and established an escape plan to get from there into the house. The boys were supposed to run out and open the garage door (it’s old school- no electric opener), and I would fish Sleeping Beauty from the backseat and make a run for the garage.
Great plan.
Except that after I tucked my chin down, while trying to shield my daughter’s head from the rain with my arm, I didn’t notice that our old 1970s wooden garage door wasn’t up quite all the way, and I ran full speed into it.
Suddenly, I was on my back on the cement floor. All the children were screaming. I held my head and realized it was bleeding, and I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure I was severely disoriented and definitely hyperventilating.
Good times.
The kids brought me a rag for my head, and my phone, and I called Mr. Fantastic, who thankfully happened to be heading home right then anyways.
We had lots of fun things to talk about over the next few hours, as he texted photos of my bloody new hairdo to our friend who is a doctor, and talked in hushed tones about stitches and staples, pain medication and whether or not I had lost consciousness.
Then that fantastic man of mine performed the finishing steps for dinner that I had put in the slow cooker that morning. I had planned to have a nice, easy night after a nice relaxing day. Plans, schmans.
In the end, the bleeding slowed and I didn’t go to the hospital. While I lay there on the sofa later, the children all kept coming and checking on me, which was really sweet.
The Lady was very concerned that I wouldn’t get any Christmas presents if I had to get staples in my head. I assured her Christmas hadn’t been ruined. She looked at me doubtfully, and if, by chance, my head isn’t healed by Christmas and my stocking is empty, I know who will say, “I told you so.”
I also now know which of my children is good in an emergency, who will scream about dirt in my pretty hair and won’t notice blood at all, and which child knows where the first aid kit is and will drop it in front of a wounded person and let them fend for themselves.
Today I’m filing all that information away for the future, and taking lots of Advil for my sore body, while my kids keep asking to look at my head. This is one glamorous life I live, friends.
Surely Friday will be better….
