Olivia beats me to another life experience.

“Does my new ball float?” Olivia asked me, standing on the edge of the toilet.  Her hands splashed in the water she’d trapped in the bathroom sink as she waited for my reply.

“Don’t know,” I responded distractedly, scrubbing my fingernail with a nail polish remover soaked cotton ball.

“I want to see if—”

I saw her sudden movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced up just in time to watch her chin crash into the granite countertop.  I heard the crunch of her teeth knocking together and the thud of her head smacking the side of the toilet when she hit the floor.  Then she was a little crumpled heap, sandwiched between the toilet and cabinet.

There was a pause.  You always know it’s going to be bad if there’s a pause.

“WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”

I snapped out of my stunned paralysis, snatched her up, and cradled her in my arms.

I checked her teeth first; I’ve never recovered from the time she chipped her front tooth.  Anytime she hits anywhere near her mouth?  I pry her lips open to make sure they’re all still intact in there.

Just as I was heaving a great sigh of relief for the safety of her chompers (and just as I decided I might actually go deaf from how loud she was continuing to scream), I saw her bloody hand flutter up to my face.

“Where is the blood coming from?” I shouted.

I tilted her head back to see a gaping red wound in that fleshy place between neck and chin.  The blood welled over, so I dove for the nearest thing I could find to staunch the flow.  Toilet paper.  (It is not really the best thing for prolific bleeding, let’s put it that way.)

Fortunately, my sisters, Emily and Alisha, had entered the bathroom.  Emily grabbed a washcloth and tossed it to me.  As I replaced the toilet paper, I peeked at her gash again.  I could see little yellow gobs of fat and the sheen of muscle, then an outgush of blood came oozing, so I clapped the washcloth onto her neck.

Crap.  She was going to need stitches.

She calmed down relatively fast, given the fact that her neck was trying to pump her lifeblood right out of her body.  She sat calmly on the couch, watching me with a tear streaked face while I gathered the things I’d need for the InstaCare with shaking hands.  In unspoken agreement, Alisha, Emily, Olivia, and I piled into the car.  I was glad for the extra support.

The InstaCare was empty, so we were admitted immediately (much to Olivia’s frustration, she didn’t even get a chance to play with toys!).  The dude that took her blood pressure and temperature was a gruff, aging man with gigantically overgrown mutton chops curling right off his face.  He was a reeeeaaal charmer.  I thought Olivia might have a heart attack.

She allowed him to examine her, but started to cry when he tried to move her washcloth to get a look at her cut.  She was terrified.  It took some coaxing, but she finally allowed him to put a cotton ball slathered in lidocaine on her chin (does the word lidocaine remind anybody else of iocane, as in iocane powder, as in my dear, sweet Westley?? Please know what I’m talking about?).  She whimpered as the cold gel penetrated her cut, but sat still without trying to remove it.

Finally the doctor entered.  Oh, I was sick.

Olivia was in relatively good spirits; the lidocaine (powder) had numbed her a little.  She showed the doctor her cut, answered a few questions, then he was laying her down giving me instructions to hold her head.  My sisters took her hands and feet.  He placed a paper bib over Olivia’s face, leaving only her chin exposed, so she couldn’t see what was happening. 

The worst part was the numbing shots.  ShotS.  Inside her wound.  She cried and screamed, “That hurts!  No!  That hurts!” but didn’t thrash or move.  She is a good egg.  She tries so desperately to please people; she knew she had to be still, so instead of pushing us away, she lay perfectly flat while screaming about the pain.  It was sad. 

Once she was sufficiently numb, things were much better.  She received four bright blue stitches.  She cried occasionally while they went in, but was easily distracted by my streaming monologue about Yogurtland, Nana’s house, and what toppings should she choose when she gets the frozen yogurt she surely deserves after such an ordeal?  She was so brave.  And I love her.

The picture I sent her dad right as she was finished.  You can’t see the stitches, but you can see her red little eyes from crying.

I cannot keep this child’s face clean to save my life, but here are her four little stitches!  (It’s weird how little the cut looks when it’s all stitched up.) I can’t believe how much better they’ve looked each successive day.  This picture was taken yesterday (Saturday), she received the stitches on Friday, and they looked even better today.

Her yogurt.  She deserved a treat, for real.

We need some levity after all that, so here’s Olivia singing a song of her own composition:

(we were sitting outside watching a storm, hence her song topic.)

And here is one about parks.  She REALLY likes parks.

We don’t really go to the park every day.

Her stitches haven’t bothered her even remotely since she got them in.  She’s had no medication or anything.  It’s just business as usual.  Today she asked if she could make a recipe.  I was like, “Um, yes?  I guess?” So she asked for a hard boiled egg, lettuce, ham, broccoli, carrots, snap peas, cheese, and ranch dressing.  The only thing I turned down was mandarin oranges.  Because that sounded nasty with all the other ingredients and I wanted her to actually eat it, you know?

Her fancy recipe turned out to be a regular salad, but don’t tell her that!

She ate the whole thing, exclaiming, “Oh, WOW!  These ingredients are making my recipe so amazing!”

Is that title too cryptic?  I’m trying to tell you I’ve never had stitches.  First she beats me to surgery, now she is getting stitches.  I’m beginning to feel like I’ve lived in a plastic bubble?