Tales from the Diaper Bag

The Battle Scars of Motherhood

Today was a big day. We bought our Christmas tree. We did some holiday shopping (it is REALLY hard to out-do the grandparents. I don’t even know what Santa is going to do. He’s going to have to come up with a pony, or something. Sheesh) AND we decided to take down the crib and replace it with a “big-girl bed.”  We had done some reading and knew it could be traumatic for DD, so we took the advice of a friend and got her involved in the process of taking the crib apart. While my husband unscrewed the bed, DD “helped” with her toy-tools. Alas, after about 45 seconds she got bored with that, and we settled down with a book while Dad finished the job. . . or that was the plan. Here’s the thing about crib construction/destruction. . . .it’s a not a one-man job. Not REALLY. It takes two people to hold the various (very heavy) parts while the other one screws or unscrews.  Did we know that? Yes. Did it matter? No.

When my husband unscrewed the last piece of the crib, the heavy oak headboard of the crib fell. . .right on me and my daughter. Let me start by saying, DD is totally fine.  I was leaning over her, reading a book, so my face took the brunt. . .but BOY, did it ever take the brunt. At first, I just thought I was in a lot of pain, but when I went to the bathroom to clean up , I saw that I was bleeding a lot and had a nasty gash above my left eye. A VERY nasty gash. Cue: utter hysteria. I’m not proud of that. I kept telling my husband to take DD out of the room because I knew I was freaking out and crying and I certainly didn’t want to traumatize her, but DAMN. Have I mentioned my inability to deal with seeing blood? Well, head wounds bleed a lot. And then there’s my utter phobia of doctors? Despite the pain, the blood and the tiny, rational voice in my head that was saying: “you need to get stitches,” my initial reaction to the injury was to try to wash it off, slap a piece of gauze on it, and clean up the bathroom (denial, denial, denial).  My husband had to pull me away from my OCD cleaning-fest and put me in the car.

And then things got a little better.

(1) My daughter was a rock-star about the whole thing. It was around her bedtime, but she was great in the car on the way to the hospital. Great in the ER waiting room. And good when we got home. Seriously, she’s amazing.

(2) I only had to get 8 stitches. I look like a horror-show, but it could have been worse.  I could have gotten a concussion. Or worse– my daughter could have taken the hit. . .if I got 8 stitches, I shudder to think what would have happened to a little girl, not yet 2.

(3) And here’s the real shocker. . . I was in and out of the ER in about an hour. No joke. I had no wait. There was no one there. I walked in, filled out my admission form and went straight back. I’ve NEVER had that experience in an emergency room. Ever.


So, I look pretty terrible. DD is afraid to look at me. She keeps saying “Boo-boo. No, no, no!” but she’s fine. I’m fine. And one day, when she’s a teenager and she’s driving me nuts, I’ll have a scar to point at and say, “Look what I did for you!” This is the start of a beautiful mom guilt-trip. 🙂




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