For the entire month of June I’m planning on writing a series of blog-a-day posts based on a set series of open-ended questions to myself. This is one of those posts.
June 8th // Something You Have Fixed
I was sitting here trying to think of something to write for today’s blog-a-day topic, filling time writing about the video games I was playing which was itself to fill time trying to think of something to write, thinking about how I should try and relate today’s post to something house-ish because today is the sixth anniversary of our move in date, six years from the date we took possession of this little house, and surely I’ve fixed something worth blogging about recently…
I was sitting here trying to think, and Claire who had been in bed for about half an hour (restless as normal) stumbled out and asked me for a tissue.
Now there is only one reason she ever asks for a tissue. It is on those less-and-less rare occasions when she has been quietly tucked away in a corner or in bed picking her nose and she has caused it to bleed. Yeah, kids do that. I’m kinda used to it. I’m kinda used to the snot. I’m kinda used to the gross. Whatever.
So, of course, me alone — because Karin is off at dance rehearsal — is sitting here and Claire tromps out of her bed, face smeared red with nose-bleed blood, and the tears of realization starting to well behind eyes sinking ever closer and deeper into kiddie fear and frustrations. And I — sitting here on the couch with a laptop computer on my knee — realize I need to react, quickly, now, jumping to action to avoid a full size gusher, because every other time this has happened it’s not only the blood that gets everywhere but the wailing, screaming tears that follow quickly behind.
We move quickly to the bathroom (for the light, the sink, and the ease of later cleanup — but definitely not for the mirror that only threatens to amplify the aforementioned tear-fest.) I tell her to look at me. Just look. Not at the mirror. At me. And I dab her nose, pinching the flow. I swab the blood and just keep telling her to look in my eyes. I just keep repeating that, locking her trembling stare with mine, as a worked quickly to stop the red gusher on her face. I ask her questions. I distract her. And slowly, slowly, slowly… the blood stops. Slowly.
And then we do the bedtime thing again. Wash her face. Tuck her in. Shout assurances from down the dark hallway. Until… now, all is quiet.