The Toddler Chronicles, No. 22
I had my very first trip to the ER a few days ago. I even have the video of the event.
For those of you who’ve already heard this amusing and anticlimactic tale, I apologize. Actually, no, I don’t apologize. Any amusing story worth telling is worth running into the ground—especially when it’s one of mine. And you’d better believe I’ll run this one into the ground again when my kids are old enough to appreciate it, since Lyla is currently 4 and Charlotte is currently 2.
A few days ago, the girls were playing in the big room upstairs while I was on the couch minding my own business. Charlotte wanted the show changed on the TV, so I told her to bring me the remote. She happily ran over to the hutch, grabbed it, and sprinted toward me. I stretched my arm out, ready to receive the remote like a normal human interaction was about to occur…and then, two feet away from me, she decided to throw it.
Not toss. Throw. Overhand. A two-year-old Nolan Ryan (he’s considered to be the hardest thrower in MLB history, per ChatGPT). It wasn’t malicious—just a normal, joyful toddler fastball.
It hit me square in the mouth with a peculiar thud that I heard and felt. Really, that thud was a small explosion and convinced me that I had broken a tooth.
I quickly migrated to the bathroom to assess the damage and informed Gabby that I had been assaulted by my own offspring. Staring at myself, mouth agape in the mirror, I confirmed that my teeth were all where they belonged and that I had a respectable cut on the inside of my upper lip that barely made it through to the outside.
Inconvenient.
At one point, while I was still actively bleeding, Charlotte wandered in and said, “Oh, Daddy hurt? Your blood?” I told her my lip was cut from when she threw the remote, to which she replied, “Oh! TV show! Snack? Snaaaaack?” Then she spent the next 30 seconds listing every snack in the house asking if I would retrieve it for her.
Gabby went to handle the snack crisis while I irrigated my cakehole. I tried to glue the cut closed, but it refused to cooperate or stop bleeding, so that was lovely.
As the reality set in that I would likely need JB Weld or stitches, I called a couple of ER friends for opinions (both have an impressively high bar for sutures), and they all agreed that I definitely-probably-maybe-most-likely-for-sure needed stitches.
So, in a fit of mild annoyance that I couldn’t just glue my face back together, I headed to the ER. The doctor was fantastic and said I definitely needed sutures—and also recommended I get Charlotte involved in some kind of throwing sport, or at least learn to duck better.
So now I’m the proud owner of two stitches in my upper lip, and Charlotte is the undisputed champion of breaking my 35-year streak of never being an ER patient.
I haven’t told Gabby yet, but we’ll probably enroll that child in axe throwing. Any parent can sign their kids up for dodgeball or baseball, but only the cool ones go straight to axe throwing.
The video of the event is below. It’s hilarious, anticlimactic, and not graphic at all, unless you count me having the reflexes of a deceased bison.