We headed out to our friends' house in the country this evening to butcher the roosters. More about that later, I promise, but just as I was rinsing the last chicken off, I heard Sweet Sister--who had been playing with the Kid on a swing--start screaming my name.
Sweet Husband and our friends got there first. I arrived--chicken carcass in hand--to see the Kid's entire face and most of Sweet Husband's shirt covered in blood. The mama half of our friends immediately reassured me, "It's just a head wound...it's just a head wound." I tossed the chicken at her wonderful husband and tried to console Sweet Sister, as we rushed indoors for the first aid kit.
Sweet Husband, who had already been coated in a decent amount of chicken goo and feathers, shouted at me to wash my hands so that I could take the Kid. Meanwhile, Nice Mama Friend, an unflappable vet tech by day-job, went straight to work mopping up blood and cleaning the cuts so that we could see what was going on.
The Kid had fallen off the swing and landed on his head, but once the source of the blood was visible, it wasn't nearly as bad as it looked. It's going to swell like a beach ball, of course, but the part of the cut that was creating all the blood was no bigger than a dime and not deep enough for stitches. The Kid sobbed as we bandaged him up, and a cup of milk and a bowl of ice cream just barely made it better.
After a quick rinse in the tub and a rather traumatic change of bandages at home, he fell asleep before I could even turn the light off. As he breathed in and out heavily on my chest, I thought to myself, "Why can't he scrape his knees, like a normal kid? Or his elbows? Or his...well, anywhere else, really? Why does it always seem to be his beautiful little (blood gushing) head?"