Attack of the Dishwasher

Have you been to the ER with your kids yet? My son is three and despite my expectations for several rounds of stitches by this age, we have yet to take him in. Yesterday we got pretty close, but no cigar.

We took a family trip to Sears last night to buy a new water filter and some vacuum bags. (I don't do errands alone with the kids anymore; it's just too much of an effort for a fat pregnant lady.) We had barely arrived and were making our way to the back of the store when my ever curious son (you know the type, always looking everywhere except where they are going?) walked straight into the edge of the dishwasher display. He immediately starts screaming bloody murder. Knowing that he has a tendency to overreact, I give him a hug, tell him it's going to be OK, and to watch where he is walking in the future. He calms down after a few minutes, lets go of my legs and turns to follow my husband. And that's when I notice that there is a fountain of blood pouring down the back of his head and into the collar of his shirt. It was like a scene from "The Sixth Sense." That one where the boy is smiling and beckoning and then turns around and there is an bloody axe sticking out of his head.

Needless to say, we grabbed Addison and made for the bathroom pronto. Keith was justly worried, but I insisted that all head wounds bleed a lot, so we should clean it up and assess the damage before rushing off to the hospital. We located the men's room first so Keith had the honors of clean up duty. I felt a little weird standing outside of the restroom listening to Addison scream while men walked up to the door, hesitated for a minute or two, and then either entered or walked away. I almost felt like I needed to explain our circumstances to everyone who passed by so they wouldn't think a child was being molested in the men's room. Seriously, what would you think if you heard a little boy screaming in the bathroom?

Anyhow, I finally asked a saleswoman if she had a First Aid kit handy, just for something to do. She walked nonchalantly into the back for a few minutes and then told me someone would be coming to help me shortly. A young man walked out a bit later, empty handed, and asked what he could do for me. I told him what had happened and suddenly he was defensive.

"It happened here? Do I need to fill out an incident report?"

"No, but do you have some Neosporin or something?"

So he disappears into the back and comes out with a band-aid. A Band-aid! How is that going to help with a head wound, especially on a head full of hair? Whatever...

I tell him where to find my husband and son, "Just follow the screaming," and two seconds later the associate comes rushing out of the bathroom, runs into the back, and comes back out wearing rubber gloves and carrying an arm load of goodies, scissors at the ready.

"What in the world does he think he is doing with those?" I'm thinking. "He'd better not be trying to do stitches himself, that's for darn sure!"

By this time, I'm a little annoyed. When someone asks for a First Aid kit, you would think there would be a bit more of a rush. Not that my son's life was in any danger, but come on, at least come out prepared to help, not just to waste time asking questions.

In the end, it just turned out to be a nice surface scratch, nothing serious. We gobbed him up with antibiotic cream, filled out the stupid incident report ("Just in case you end up going to the hospital," the young man insisted. "Yeah, just to cover your tush in case we decide to sue, more like," I'm thinking,) and prayed that nobody would comment on Addison's blood matted hair or the stains on our shirts as we finished our shopping and headed out the door.

Keith tried to take a picture of the mess with his cell phone, but Addison was being too jittery so you'll just have to imagine the scene. I'm telling you, think "Sixth Sense" and you'll be right on.