Doing the laundry is a dangerous past-time. For my Dear Boy anyway. Pottering around the garden while I hung out the wet washing, he fell backwards and cracked his little head on a big, big rock.
He wailed for about 15 minutes with his tears and drool soaking through my shirt, then slid off my lap and toddled off to play with his toys. When he finally let me run my hand over his head, there were no bumps, no cuts, no grazes. But there was a dint.
While he played I put in a call to the maternal child health hotline, just to check if there's anything I should watch out for. The nurse said depressed skull fracture and Natasha Richardson's skiing accident and told us to go to the Emergency Department as soon as possible. Mama adrenaline levels hit the roof. We hit the ED 10 minutes later, were hustled through triage 2 minutes after that and shown into Monash Children's almost as soon as my bum hit the waiting room chairs.
The doc was brief and only marginally patronising, classifying Dear Boy's head injury as minor and sending us on our way.
I wrote a little while ago about knowing when to hold him up and when to let him fall, but it's terribly confusing when you start throwing in symptom-less illness and accidents, that could be nothing or could be fatal. I don't want to be the mum that freaks out at the smallest sniffle but I'm starting to realise that blase could also be incredibly dangerous.
Do you ever find a balance?