by Robin Downton-Poirier

Created on: January 15, 2009

My husband has always enjoyed taking our kids sledding and he is often just a big kid himself playing on the hills. I, on the other hand, am a cautious sort. Much like my mother and my grandmother before me, constantly reminding the kids like a broken record player (remember those things?) to be careful, don't go on jumps, and the infamous "You're going to split your head open!" . But, all they usually hear is "Blah, blah, blah." Meanwhile, they are squealing with glee flying down the local hill along with more kids doing the same thing. Dashing in and out of bodies, more often than not, they make it to the bottom of the hill unscathed. Even so, my fragile Mommy nerves cannot handle watching the kids, big and small, dart around on a snow hill, so I often opt to stay home with a cup of coffee and a good book, leaving Daddy and the boys to have their fun.

I could hear the boys come in the house after one of their sledding trips, the youngest running to me, Daddy in tow, screaming, "I split my head open!" as he held his trembling hand to the back of his head, blood seeping between his fingers. Trying to remain calm, I cleaned up the area only to see a gash, quite deep, about two inches long. My husband panicked and froze (he'll say he didn't) and I had to take my terrified child to the emergency room for stitches. Once there, we ran into another boy in his karate class who was also requiring stitches to his head after a fall. The doctor called both boys in together and put them in rooms next to each other. He went to work on Austen, the other little boy, first and we could hear the tears and fears coming through the wall. My son was getting more and more fearful with each passing minute. I, in the meantime, am putting on my brave face, praying my little boy will be fine, no concussions, no other problems besides his oozing head and now matted hair.

A few minutes later, it was his turn and the doctor spoke to him casually, made some jokes, and did his best to allay his fears. He gave him a quick needle for freezing and then went to work putting seven staples in my son's head to close the gash. When it was over, my smiling son gingerly touched his new wound and asked how his buddy Austen had fared. The doctor told him he had staples too and warned him, as he had Austen, to be more careful next time. We were then homeward bound.

When we got there, my husband was telling the tale to his neighbourhood buddies standing around inside our garage. Much like women gossip, the guys around my place trade horror stories, complete with details and actions when needed. When our son strolled in, everyone asked how he was doing and my son said he was okay, then showed his staples and soon-to-be scar. He told them about Austen's incident and that they were in rooms side-by-side. When the adults were suitably impressed, my little boy proudly declared: "I have seven staples. Austen only had five!" It was nice to see that, even in injuries, he was still competitive and I knew he'd be alright.

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