You don’t have to actually put 911 on your speed dial, do you?

Raising boys is very exciting. All of a sudden the Bandit is on an injury kick. Just last week we were at the ER for stitches in his knee after a run in with our dog and a rock.

On Saturday the kids were in the back yard playing. Both of our dogs were asleep in the living room so I figured things would go alright. Then I heard the yelling and some crying, followed by screeching and the persistent wailing of, “I’m gonna die!”

A parent tries not to laugh at times like this. My children are very dramatic. I have no idea where they get it. As a consequence, I am exceedingly calm in an emergency.

I met The Bandit in the kitchen expecting very little in the way of an actual injury. I can’t tell you how many times I can’t find any physical evidence of a wound. Usually it’s a thinly disguised form of tattling. This time however, there was blood.

Copious blood. He had his hand over his eye and the red stuff was dripping from his chin and oozing out from between his fingers.

“Oh,” I said. I peeled his hand away from his face and determined that he had a cut above his eyebrow. It was nothing epic, but facial cuts always bleed like crazy making things much scarier than they need to be.

I got the bleeding to stop and put a butterfly bandage on it. A bandage that would be quite small on a grown man’s head was ENORMOUS on his little forehead. The trip to the ER was cancelled.

This time it was determined that the wound was received with the assistance of an older sister and a baseball. If you ask her, she will give you a complicated story that involves gravity and rivals middle East political negotiations. If you can pay attention long enough to follow the story you’re a better person than me.