I crawled out of bed Saturday morning, put another layer of sweatpants and fleece over the layer I'd worn to bed, and got bundled up to walk Charlie. When I got home I was still puffy-eyed and stuffy-nosed, and I said to Jon "I don't feel good. I don't know why I don't feel good, but I don't feel good." He put a hand on my shoulder and said, "I think when I come home, you tend to unlock a little."
Unlock a little... That's as good a way to describe it as any, I guess.
In deference to my "unlocked" state, he offered to leave me home to rest while he took the kids to a Scout event - bowling! - to celebrate a successful season of popcorn sales.
I crawled back into bed. The doorbell rang. Charlie went nuts. I went downstairs. Package.
I went back to bed. The doorbell rang. Charlie went nuts. I went downstairs. Small neighbor wanting to play in the snow (sorry, the kids are at bowling, won't be back until after 3).
I went back to sit on the bed, and Jon called. Bel fell at the bowling alley and cut open her chin, and he's at urgent care with the kids. He's pretty sure she's going to need stitches. "Do you want me to come?" I asked. "Nah," he said, "they're not busy, they're going to see us pretty quick. I'll let you know."
I sat on the bed, contemplating my options and waiting for more info via text. The doorbell rang. Charlie charged down the stairs. It's another package, and the mailman doing delivery tells me there's more stuff in our mailbox in the parking lot. It was 18 degrees, so I nodded and shut the door and went back upstairs.
I got dressed in something slightly more respectable than sweats and fleece, texted Jon to ask if Bel needed a change of clothes and if he wanted me to come over, and waited to hear back. We have, very conveniently it turns out, located ourselves within a mile and a half of the urgent care. This has been a good thing because everyone has been there at least once since August (except me, knock on wood). When Jon texted me back that yes, Bel would need a clean shirt, and yes, she would like me to come over, I threw stuff in a backpack and walked next door to the medical building. He also texted me a snapshot of Bel, bandaged, looking angelic and resigned:
I arrived to find them finishing up the stitches -- a neat row of about half-a-dozen just under Bel's little chin. She managed to gash herself pretty good, knock a chunk off an upper molar, and jar the rest of her upper teeth. Jon was so proud of her for handling the whole thing like a trooper. Every time a new person entered the exam room, he said she told them "Hi, I'm Annabel, I'm five and a half." She would explain what had happened, too, and at one point told the staff "I'm never going bowling again." Poor sweetie.
Jon said to me, "you wouldn't have had any fun with the stitches," and then told me I had great timing because I got there for the follow-up instructions. We helped Bel change into sweats and a t-shirt, and came home where I set her up on the sofa with one of her favorite shows. A dose of Tylenol and a good night's sleep later, she was a lot better. She's having some tooth pain, so I'm working on getting us into a local dentist as soon as possible.
Jon still can't figure out what she landed on to cut herself so badly, but who knows? Bel said she blames her hair - that it got in her face, and because she was carrying her ball she couldn't brush it out of the way. But bowling balls, the last I checked, were round. And while we're good about helmets for bikes, and shin guards for soccer, we hadn't thought about wearing protective gear for bowling.
Maybe next time we will.