A Stitch In Time

As I've said, the Snag Family doesn't spend a lot of time together in the morning. I do, however, get my youngest and his best friend off to school in the morning, if by getting them off to school one means making them fetch the newspaper and otherwise tormenting them until the Lovely Bride stops back home to make sure they're actually ready to go. That's her punishment for working a mile from home. At least that's how I justify it.

Today was typical. I drank my coffee and explained the Eisenhower Interstate System to the boys. ("The reason there's one straight mile out of every five is so the mothership can land to take us to the home planet. That's why we live near the airport.") The Lovely Bride came home, told the boys to ignore me, and signed the agendas used to communicate between home and school.

I'm not allowed to sign agendas anymore, not since I wrote a comment in the one belonging to my son's friend about the bean he was growing in science. "M. likes his bean. Please give him more homework. Sincerely, Daddy #2."

Anyway, today I was planning to work from home and I nestled into my bathrobe as the kids got ready. The Lovely Bride poured a cup of coffee to go, my son walked to the garage, I smiled at the thought of a day to myself.

There was a clunk and a muffled scream. The Lovely Bride ran to the garage and came back holding my youngest's head against her shirt while he whimpered.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"He tripped and hit his head on the edge of the van's sliding door," she said.

"Ow, ow, ow," he said.

"Cool," his friend said.

After a few minutes she pulled his head away and brought him over to me. Like I have any useful skills.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Looks like meat," I said.

"Ow, ow, ow," he said.

"Cool," his friend said.

Off went his friend to school. Off went the boy to the clinic up the road. The Lovely Bride and I met each other there. We were ushered into a room to await the doctor.

"You're sure this isn't a trick to get me to submit to a checkup?" I asked.

"Don't be stupid," she said.

"Can I have a back rub?" I asked.

"Don't be stupid," she said again.

"I'll tell the doctor you pushed him into the door. You'll go to jail."

"Ow, ow, ow," said the boy.

The doctor arrived and examined the wound. "That's a heck of a gash," he said.

"Thanks," I said, prompting him to glance at me curiously. Fortunately he knows me.

"He's being stupid," the Lovely Bride told him.

"She's right," said the boy.

The doctor made a note. That's going to bite me later, I thought.

"I was inside drinking coffee when it happened," I offered helpfully.

The doctor asked the nurse to wash out the cut and stepped out to attend to another patient. The Lovely Bride asked the boy if he was alright.

"I'll be okay, Mom."

"Can I leave you with Dad?" she asked. "I need to get back to work."

"I guess," he sighed.

"Don't worry," I said. "In a pinch, I can help re-engineer the clinic's insurance reimbursement procedure."

While the nurse irrigated we made small talk about baseball. Her son plays too.

"Dad, stop talking so much. I'm bleeding here," said my kid, dabbing at his eyes.

"Practice saying this: 'you should see the other guy,'" I told him.

"I wish Mom was here."

"We all do, sport."

The doctor returned, stitched up the wound, and sent us on our way with a handful of antibiotic cream and instructions on how to care for the injury. I've mostly forgotten them although I vaguely remember something about using a disc sander on his forehead in a few weeks.

The boy spent the rest of the day on the couch watching SportsCenter. Every once in a while I'd check on him, asking if he felt nauseous or wanted a sardine or something.

His brothers and friends arrived home later that day and he was the talk of the neighborhood. He smiled gamely from his seat on the couch as they queried him about pain and blood and the possibility of gangrene.

After dinner, with his mother in class, I asked him if he'd be alright staying home without me while I went to a meeting

"Are you being stupid again?" he asked.

"Probably," I said. "You were tough today."

"Thanks."

"That's going to make a cool scar."

"I know."

"Too bad the doctor used pink stitches."

He sighed and turned up the TV.

"Love you buddy."

"Love you Dad."