Monday, February 13, 2012

Brian is building a treehouse.

Otherwise known as a superhero fort, or a secret hide-out, or the upstairs campsite, depending on the afternoon. It's mostly a way for Brian to play outside and the boys to play with him, while using up leftover wood from a deck he de-constructed a couple of years ago. I think the boys are almost as excited as Brian is. Anyway, last week Silas stepped on a nail in the backyard. Last night, it got infected. Insert dramatic maternal guilt here.

Did I really "let" it get infected? Did I really sign off on that? Of course not. But it just feels like Basic Mom Knowledge to know how to prevent an infection when a kid steps on a nail. I feel as though his infection is evidence that I've really been winging it this whole time, and I actually know NOTHING about raising little boys. In my defense, his tetanus is up to date, it barely even bled, and he never cried. He just told me "my foot is worried," and came inside to play with something else. I honestly didn't think it was that big of a deal, until midnight last night, when he came into my room and the ball of his little foot was all swollen, with a little black dot in the center. GUILT, friends.

So we skipped the Valentine's party at school, and to the pediatrician we went, where it was drained (!) and medicated, and we were sent home with antibiotics. My sweet doctor seemed to act like it was no big deal, plenty of kids have mothers who don't take puncture wounds seriously enough. Happens all the time. God bless her for that. Even if it's totally false - even if Good Mothers NEVER see their little boys step on a nail while wearing bedroom slippers then insist they're fine, it's just a little blood - I still appreciated her attitude. Goodness knows I don't need any help with the GUILT. That little swollen foot in the middle of the night took care of that.

And in a bizarre little plot twist, Brian ALSO stepped on a nail in the backyard this weekend, and is headed in to his own doctor today for tetanus and antibiotics of his own. At least I can claim no responsibility for HIS puncture wound. And he had the good sense to go in the next day, rather than waiting for the little throbbing black dot to appear.

Turns out that nails in the backyard are dangerous, bedroom slippers (even if they are camouflaged and have rubber soles) are not appropriate construction gear, and that a tiny little puncture wound can expose a monumental level of maternal guilt.

But it's going to be a cool treehouse.

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