So. Glass tables and children do not go together.
There are exceptions I suppose. Like, if you have a wing in your estate that can be devoted to glass tables that the children can be forbidden to enter, then you can probably have as many as you like without any problem. You can use them to display your Fabergé eggs and knife sculptures as well.
But for me, our glass and metal coffee table never really fit in with our family. Every little touch left a very noticeable fingerprint. If you needed to move it to vacuum or to make room for a pillow fort, it was awkward and heavy and even though though it’s corners were rounded, I always felt it was an accident waiting to happen.
Last week, that accident happened.
I’m still not exactly sure how. Violet went to sit on the couch and must’ve swung her legs out in just the right way to drag her heel along the edge of the glass top. I was in the next room and heard the vibrating thud that the table makes if you catch it with your toe or set something down too hard on it.
Whenever I hear the thump of something or someone hitting the ground somewhere in this house, I’ve learned to wait a few seconds before rushing in. Most of the time, it’s nothing.
When it is something always takes a few seconds. Then there is the crying. Or in this case, the horrific screaming.
I flew in to see Lily squeezing her hands over her ears like she does when she’s frightened and Violet cradling her foot. She immediately threw her head into the pile of blankets next to her and continued screaming into them. She cannot stand the sight of blood. You can’t even say the word blood around her without her getting uncomfortable. And this laceration reminded me of that scene in Pet Sematary where Herman Munster gets sliced by the demon toddler so-there was some blood.
Weirdly and fortunately though, there wasn’t as much as you would expect for a deep cut. If you’ve ever managed to really rip yourself open on something, sometimes you can actually catch a glimpse inside of the wound for split second and get a good idea of how fcked you may be; the whitish fat and muscles are on display for just a moment before the blood comes rushing in along with the panic and adrenaline. That’s my experience anyway, so I was expecting any second for things to get worse.
I had her foot raised up and a washcloth pressed to it and she was screaming that she was going to die and I was screaming IN A CALMING MANNER that she was not going to die and that it wasn’t as bad as it looked even though I knew I might be lying about that last part.
After a couple of minutes, when blood did not seep through the washcloth, I peeled it back and was surprised and relieved to see that it wasn’t bleeding anymore. Like a good modern parent I took a picture so I could better assess the wound without freaking Violet out by uncovering it.
I could tell it was wide enough to maybe need a few stitches, but it wasn’t bleeding, so…maybe not right away? The thing is, it was bedtime. I was alone with the girls. This wasn’t ambulance worthy. The children’s ER is 20 minutes away and bringing both girls to the hospital seemed more like it would add more trauma to the situation then necessary , especially for little Lillian.
I was trying to keep them both calm. So after gooping on a ton of Neosporine and (badly) bandaging her foot, I gave them ice cream and consulted the oracle that is Facebook. I know several nurses and the overall consensus was that it could wait.
The next morning we went to the ER because the Urgent Care didn’t take our insurance, so we waited for 3 hours for a doctor to pop on a couple of steri strips and surprisingly also a huge bandage and half a cast. The cut was along the Achilles tendon and in order for it to heal it had to be immobilized.
Crutches on my eight year old did not work out. When she would fall, she couldn’t let go of the crutches snd she’d fall straight back, so there was no way I was sending her to school on those things.-she would only damage herself more and take out a couple of other kids in the process. She got a few extra days of Thanksgiving break.
The ex coffee table has been rehomed. It wasn’t mine in the first place. I married into that coffee table.
I’ve replaced it with something much less pointy:
So to recap: Glass tables + Children = eventual certain doom
