Because hitting people is unacceptable

Our 9 year old, gifted son is having difficulty in school.  Last year he was being picked on relentlessly by other students.  This year, he has a personality conflict with a particular teacher after he rolled his eyes at a homework assignment.  I attended a meeting with his principal and teachers to discuss an incident where The Middle Boy was removed from class for telling the teacher that "[he'd] be able to see the board better if she moved her arm".  He lacks social skills almost entirely.  He has a very blunt, direct, broadsword way when it comes to communication.  (I have no idea where that comes from).  His educators agreed that they would have him meet with a Gifted Student counselor as this is a common trait among children with higher intelligence.  This is not an excuse for this comment.  But clearly, he has needs that surpass his understanding.  It's easy to forget that even though he has the intelligence of a teenager, he has the maturity level of a 9 year old.  The two parts of him did not develop at the same rate.  Throwing him out of the classroom without explaining what he did wrong when he clearly didn't understand the issue doesn't exactly teach him anything.  There was no connection made between cause and effect.  He followed instructions and left the class without argument.  The teacher informed me that she consulted the superintendent prior to meeting with me to make sure she was not in any trouble with the way she handled the situation. 

During my meeting the teacher told me "This may not be politically correct for me to say but my life would be so much easier if you withdrew him from this school."  I appreciate the jobs that teachers do.  They put up with so much and work so hard.  But the parent in me had to refrain from physical violence.  I nodded and smiled and participated in the conversation as a grown up should.  Then I came home, had some time to think, and wrote this letter to the teacher and principal: 

First, I want to thank you for your time and efforts over the last few months with our son.  Teachers don’t get nearly enough credit for the amazing jobs that they do.  After we met Tuesday morning, I came home, discussed the meeting with his father, and had time to reflect on the conversation.  We’ve spent several hours talking and I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you the thoughts and conclusions to which we came.  I apologize for the delay in sending this – our household has been suffering from an incredible cold. 

Since the beginning of the school year my husband and/or I have met, in person, 3 times.  We have had several phone calls as well.  One trend we noticed was the continued reference to the “eye roll” that occurred in the first few days of school, literally each visit and all but one call.  It is our belief that this incident has become a catalyst for the rift between teacher and student.  We feel that it has been taken as a personal slight that seems to be one which there is no recovery.  While we do not condone [The Middle Son] behavior in any way, shape, or form we also do not feel that this poor choice on his part should continue to be an issue two months later.  From that point on, the personality clash between you and [The Middle Son] has grown considerably.  We feel that this has amplified everything  [The Middle Son] has done from that point forward.  The old adage that “you never get a second chance to make a first impression” has a great deal of truth in it.  It also bars it’s adherents to a place where forgiveness is impossible.   Thus, teaching both parties nothing of interpersonal growth. 

You stated to me that [The Middle Son] is the only student that you do not have a connection with out of the entire class.  You also stated to me that your life would be easier if I withdrew [The Middle Son] from school.  These confessions weighed heavily on me, as a parent.  This situation promotes further social detachment.  Children are sponges, as you know.  They are intuitive, sensitive, keen observers.  When they witness, whether verbal or non verbal, an adult authority figure disconnect from something they have a tendency to follow suit.  [The Middle Son] has an already difficult time with making friends.  I have to wonder if your indirect/non verbal indifference to him is not being picked up on and harbored by the other students.  I’m not sure it’s really possible for him to be more emotionally isolated than he already is.  I fail to see how this is helping him develop social skills.  Being an outcast is not a skill one strives to accomplish.  No child, including [The Middle Son], wants to be disliked.  You mentioned that you had difficulty sleeping in anxiety over the meeting and can’t stand the thought of not being liked.  Well, that’s every moment of school for our son.  I won’t deny that he bears responsibility for that fact.  I will also reaffirm my belief he’s not cognizant of it.  This is not an atmosphere where learning can be fostered.  There are means to correct his rudeness.  There are not means to make you care.  There was much talk of his lack of empathy.  There was none expressed for him, either. 

We feel very adamantly that parents and teachers should be allies in pursuit of academic achievement.  When a teacher, a person we are to trust with our child’s life, expresses indifference for that child – well, to be honest – it does not provide motivation to continue that alliance.  It carries the same weight as stating that you do not care.  That is not acceptable.  He is not just part of your job.  He is a person.  I cannot imagine how that would motivate him in his studies or to be respectful, if he knew.  Something tells me, he already does. 

Our extended family and circle of friends include numerous teachers and administrators in and out of the district.  Of the people we spoke to about the meeting and its outcome, all were flabbergasted by this statement.  Never have I heard any of them say this in casual conversation about their students, let alone to a parent that they are supposed to work with on a regular basis.  Imagine if your spouse, child, parent, family member or friend told you that their life would be easier if you weren’t there.  The relationship between teacher and student is just as important to a child. 

I have several thousand clients at once.  Some have simple cases – cut & dry and finished in 9 months.  Some have time consuming, intricate plans that require detailed work that takes up to 5 years to complete.  Sometimes one person’s case can rearrange my entire day and night (including my family and home life).  I cannot imagine feeling or expressing indifference for any of them, especially to them.  It’s counterproductive, not to mention unprofessional.  In all fairness, maybe it was a simple case of miscommunication with unintended implications. If that’s so, then perhaps the same consideration should be given to a struggling 9 year old boy.  However, any doubts we had about our decision to pursue the [deleted for safety] have been extinguished. /end

 

I received an apology from the principal where she explained that the teacher was trying to tell me that she wanted [The Middle Son] to stay in this school.  She just chose the wrong words.  

yeah.  And I'm the Queen of England.  Either way, we have begun the process of enrolling him into an alternative educational program endorsed by the Ohio Association of Gifted Children.  Hopefully, this will put him on the path toward the greatness he is destined for and not one with tragic results.   

I'm his momma - That's why.

In 1993/1994 I met some of the greatest friends - several (shout out to my Sca) are still in my life today.  It was when I found my niche.  In May of 1994 I became a statistic.  I was pregnant.  However, I was dealing with a weight problem.  I was a whopping 85 pounds and had a quiet battle with anorexia.  I lost that pregnancy., which was probably a blessing in disguise.  I was just a kid.  My doctor was a pretty blunt man and told me that  I'd never carry children if I continued on the path I was walking.

Fast forward to August 1995.  I was 17.  I took a pregnancy test before my first day of senior year.  Positive.  Maybe I'm nuts but I was excited.  Scared as shit but happy.  This little life brought forth change.  I put down the cigarettes, skipped out on binge drinking weekends, refrained from the weed, started eating.  I was too scared to tell my parents until my 5th month.  But I was taking care of myself.  Something in my soul changed, deeply.  I was a suicidal basket case and nothing short of nuts until that stick turned blue.

The Oldest entered the world on a Tuesday afternoon in April of 1996.  8 days after I became a legal "adult".  I looked down at his beautiful, fresh face.  He was quiet and content.  The love was immediate and overwhelming.  He became my every single thing.  I knew that I had to give him better than what I had.  That's my baby.  My dark haired, grey eyed baby.  There was just one issue.  On his butt.  A huge mole covering one entire cheek and upper thigh.  At first, we made jokes about it.  Said he'd never be able to moon someone and get away with it.

At The Oldest's 4 month visit his pediatrician expressed some concern over it.  She recommended a dermatology consult which we scheduled right away.  I remember driving there.  My hands on the wheel, trying to find my way to this office.  We signed in and handed over our insurance card.  He was covered by my fathers General Motors plan.  We were blessed for that.  We got called back to an exam room.  The nurse told me to take his clothes off and place him on the table.  The doctor came in and immediately asked me where my mother was.  Then he started speaking into a microcassette recorder.  Never really looking at me again.  Never acknowledged my existence again.  I tried to make sense of what he was saying into that machine.  Wanted to know, to understand, to communicate.  He then said something that resonated with me - "these have a high propensity to become melanoma"  followed by "mother has been instructed to follow up in one year."  And he walked out.  I re-dressed my baby, put him back in his car seat and went to the car.  I remember thinking - "Did he just say that?"  I know what melanoma is.  It's cancer.  It's skin cancer.  I sat in the car and bawled.  Didn't I do it all right?  I ate.  I took my vitamins.  I stopped working with the chemicals at school (I was in a vocational program for Printing, Photography & Art).  I did something wrong.  And then my thoughts jumped to "What the fuck was wrong with that doctor?"  A year?!  HELL NO.  I had a friend from school whose step father was a dermatologist and a damned good one.  So I made some calls.

The visit with this doctor was much more thorough.  He counted the hundreds of spots inside the mole.  He noted it's indefinite shape and multiple colors.  He measured.  Took pictures.  Told me it was the largest he's ever seen.  That's when he got very frank.  He told me that this was a dangerous mole that would probably become melanoma.  He referred us to a plastic surgeon and advised that I not hesitate to make the appointment.  A few months later - we were in another office, on another exam table, with another doctor.  A few months later - we were at Children's.  I cannot describe this to you without tears pouring down my face.  My precious son laid there on a little bed while an IV was started.  They gave him some medicine and shortly after he was out.  He was put into a crib that looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber.  The rails were higher than I stood.  They wheeled him to the operating room.  I watched as his cage disappeared behind swinging doors.  I wish I could say that was the worst of it.

An hour later, his doctor came out and told me that part one was a success.  Told me that I'd need to go down and learn how to dress his incision.  I walked through the doors to recovery.  Saw my baby laying there, peacefully.  I felt relieved.  He was okay!  Then the nurse came to me with a large bagful of gauze and tape and ointments.  She started to explain how to clean his staples and sutures.  As she spoke, she drew back the bandage and I felt my knees shake.  My head started to spin.  And immediately I burst into sobs.  I stared at 65 staples and 75 stitches that ran the width of his mole.  A portion was left unclosed for "drainage".  I can't tell you how terrified I was.  Terrified for my little boy who just learned to walk.  I pulled myself together to hear what she had to say.  Hours later - I took him home.  He was his normal little self.  Happy.  Bouncing.  Cute.  Tried to jump on the bed and do normal little boy things.  By the time we made it to his follow up appointment  - the staples and stitches shredded through his skin.  The result of being a child.  We scheduled his next surgery for another 6 months out.

In that timespan, I got married to his father.  He had a good job as a steel cutter.  He had good insurance.  We added The Oldest to his plan immediately.   The scar became keloid.  It swelled and burned.  He had a hard time sitting down.  He screamed at diaper changes.  I kept telling myself that this was for his own good.  Then I'd hope he would grow to forget the pain.  Those days were hard.  There just aren't words.  In the days prior to his second surgery, I got a call from the scheduling clerk at the plastic surgeon's office.  Our insurance denied the pre-certification for the surgery.  This was the first time I'd ever heard the words "Pre-existing Condition".  Without payment upfront surgery could not be performed.  I was now 20 (barely) working in a print shop part time.  I didn't have the ungodly amount of money required.  I was able to work out a payment arrangement.  He underwent surgery #2.  I made weekly payments of half of my wages to the doctor for over a year.  The next December I got my monthly statement with a $0 balance.  The doctor wrote off the remainder of our bill.  This man is nothing short of amazing.  He's been featured on numerous television programs including Ordinary Extraordinary.  I owe him so much.  However, the mole was too large to remove at once.  The staples and stitches from the second surgery also tore through his skin.  There was a ballooning technique discussed.  In the end - we opted to keep an eye on it for changes for the rest of his life. 

The Oldest is now 16.  I couldn't ask for a better son.  He's intelligent, funny, sarcastic, witty, kinda smelly, loving, and just all out incredible.  He loves to cook.  Makes his younger siblings pancakes.  Loves a girl.  Doesn't clean his room.  Makes his baby sister watch Blue's Clues.  I love him so much.  He saved my life and I wouldn't want to spend a second of my life without him.  He's a great big brother.  Everything you could ask for in a son - it's right there.  One day - his exam might come back bad.  It's a fear that lives in my mind and weighs on my shoulders and sinks my heart.  I'm petrified to take him to the doctor.  Someday he won't be covered by my insurance.  He won't qualify for Medicaid.  And some executive sitting behind a desk may print a form letter explaining how they have to, regrettably, deny coverage of anything related to that mole and "pre-existing condition" smattered somewhere on the clean, crisp sheet of paper.  We will have to figure out how to pay to save his life or hold his hand while he writhes in pain and suffers and slips away. 

When you are all debating political horseshit - remember this.  For me, it's real.  When I hear "repeal Obamacare" this is what I feel.  It's flawed.  I get it.  We can all find some problem we have with most laws on the books.  That's why we amend from there.  Take a rough draft, polish it up, and create something beautiful.  Hopefully, this year will not be the year that a light is shined at the end of a tunnel only to be extinguished because of some political nonsense. 

The Bright Side is Suicide

Several weeks ago, one of my nearest and dearest friends witnessed a human being become a memory in the hearts and minds of his loved ones.  This happened some two thousand miles away and far from my front door.  We didn't talk directly about it.  But this moment,in social networking updates of the past, has impacted me so much so that I'm writing this to you, right now.

My youngest, who is now 5 (yes, blog slacker, I know) and started his first day of kindergarten, has a morbid side to him.  He talks about death regularly.  Curiosity, fear, immortality, bravery - they are just small facets of these discussions.  He asks me if I will still love him when I'm dead.  I reassure him that my love is not something he will ever have to worry about.  I explain that the love of a mommy is the strongest love ever.  And it brings me to tears, every time.  There's a pain associated with it that aches my core.  I can, literally, feel it in my heart.

Then, another, ugly thought creeps into my soul.  That person, the one who was ended, by a gunshot, that person had a mother.  Maybe she was like me.  Maybe she looked into the eyes of her young son and felt pangs of terror in the thought that one day - their physical bond would be severed.  But hers came true.  Someone, in one instant, put an end to some mommy's baby.  She felt his first flutters in the womb.  She cried, tears of joy, at ultrasound pictures.  She helped him get ready for his first day of school.  She kissed his hurties away and rushed to his room at night when he had a bad dream.  She's now missing her baby.  Crying at the mention of his name.  Falling asleep with a shirt that still smells like him or clutching his picture in her hand.  She will go the remainder of her life - wondering about what he'd be like today.  Would he have kids?  What would he have been?

That could be my youngest someday.  Or my Stormykins.  Or my Tabasco.  Or my Mini-Me.  Someday, it could be one of my babies that is slumped over, lifeless, on a sidewalk.  And it's completely out of my control.  I created these people, devote every second of my life to them, nurture them, teach them, hug them, hold them, laugh with them, watch them grow - and someone could get pissed off and take that away from me.  From the world and rob one of these babies of the life they have planned.  So I make it a point - every single day that I'm blessed to share life with these beautiful creatures - to be a little less angry when they dump milk on the carpet, break my possessions, interrupt my sleep, or take my last piece of candy.  I wish, somehow, someway, when one person goes to take the life of another, they could, for an instant, see that person through the eyes of their mommies.  I wish they could see how precious life truly is.

It makes me want to go back in time.  I know - kind of a left field thought, right?  Well, there was a time when I was hell bent for death.  I wanted so much to end myself.  Obviously, I lost that particular battle.  For which I am grateful.  Every single day. I want to put my hand on the shoulder of the troubled girl 20 years my junior, look into her tear filled eyes and tell her - There will come a day when you will want to live forever.  I want to sit her down and tell her that one day she will value life so much that hearing of the demise of a stranger will hurt her heart.  I want to explain to her that the pain she feels that drives her to this point, has an end.  Those moment where death seems like a release - they will be replaced with smiles and laughter.  I wish I could tell her that there will be rough spots, hurdles, pain - but those moments will be negated.  The hurt will be diminished.  Someday - she will look out of her backdoor, watch her baby daughter play happily with her brothers and death will be the furthest thing from her mind.  Because life gets better.

Maybe that walk in the darkness, those nights of wishing there'd be no morning, maybe that experience helped me appreciate the utter beauty of life.  There is no pain, no anger, no tangible thing, no emotion, no dollar bill, no NOTHING - worth taking a life for (including your own). 

Happy Smotherer's Day

In my lifetime, I've had the "joys" of two mothers.  The one who birthed me and the one who raised me.  Both were in my life, both taught me about the world in their own ways, both were my mom.  I was adopted when I was 14 on May 14, 1992.  Not many kids can say that they signed for an consented to their own adoption!  Granted, I was adopted by my maternal grandparents so it wasn't much of a stretch.  I won't get into all the details here because, someday, I'll want you to buy the book.  LOL

Anyway - tomorrow is Mother's Day and there's always a moment of sadness in my heart as my "Mom" is an angel now.  You don't realize in times of anger that someday the woman you are fighting with, yelling at, who is grounding you, telling you not to wear that lipstick, advising you not to shave your head, screaming at you to not date that guy, who is snooping through your room, reading your notes, demanding to know who you are with and where you are at all times, who refuses to buy you mini skirts and hooker heels.... you just don't see that someday, somewhere down the road - she will be a ghost and a gravestone.  And you will bargain, in your mind or with her or with God, for one more fight, one more argument, one more second.  You'll want those times back with every fiber of your being.  So if you still have your "Smother" - hug her tightly, call her, remind her that you love her because sometimes you are a complete asshole and she will be the only one that still loves you anyway.  This is my 10th Mother's Day since she has been gone.  Only now - as I'm raising 4 kids - am I seeing the value of her lessons. 

Once, my cousin, Chris, my friend Kristye, and I were sentenced to an afternoon of cleaning for the millionth time.  Now, my "mom" collected antique furniture and had it in every room of the house.  This was around 84 or 85, so if it was antique then, you can imagine what it would be now.  (Some of it still resides in my home to this day)  Well, she had this Berkey & Gay bedroom suite consisting of a mirrored chest of drawers, some storage thing that sat at the end of her four poster queen sized bed, in walnut.  Remembering it now - it was gorgeous.  "Was" is the key word here.  Words don't do these pieces justice.  This particular summer day we were doing time in the bowels of Tidying HELL.  Of course, we wanted to be thorough.  We were given the task of straightening the upstairs bedrooms while she took care of the downstairs.

Once we completed picking up toys, dirty clothes and various floor clutter we moved on to her room.  We found her supply of cleansing agents including, but not limited to, Ajax powder, Brillo pads, a scrub brush, and what's cleaning if you don't use the toothbrushes of everyone in the household?  You know, for fine details.  We all three entered her room and went straight to work.  We scrubbed and scoured for probably an hour or so.  Chris, liberally spreading Ajax from one end of the room to the other. (Hey, it turned a pretty blue when it was wet!  It was a fascinating substance to our young minds.)  Kristye was armed with a scrub brush.  In my hot little hand, I possessed a Brillo pad in all of it's steel wool glory.  We took to that bedroom suite like a well oiled cleaning machine.  We felt so grown up and important.  I distinctly remember saying how proud she was going to be when she sees how clean we got her furniture.  So you can imagine our confusion when she entered the room to put away the linens and started screaming.  There was a frenzy of sobbing, screaming, flailing arms, painful swats to our behinds, furious words of anger and groundings until the end of time.  Kristye was banished to her home.  Chris and I were sent to opposite ends of the house.  And when I say "sent" I mean she dragged us, beating our asses with every step.  Suddenly, this 60 year old woman grew 5 more arms and Herculean strength.  It was like she was the Incredible Hulk himself.

We weren't permitted out of our respective rooms for the rest of the night - an eternity when you're young.  We couldn't understand why we were being punished for cleaning.  After all, we were just doing what we were told!  Chris and I whispered under the cracks of our closed doors attempting to determine our fatal error.  The next day, through giant tears, she explained what we did wrong.  She told us that she still loved us.  She proceeded to make us a tray of cut fruits and her famous fruit dip.  I didn't think those ups and downs would vanish.  In the coming years I'd grow to hate her and love her again, despise her and cherish her and miss her in overwhelming ways.  She'd smother me, ask too many questions, make too many suggestions, give me unsolicited advice that I'd just rebel against, and love me unconditionally and forever.  

In 2001, she was granted her wings on a hot August day in her bed.  From there on out our family changed.  She was our glue and for a long while we fell apart without her.  But the fortitude she instilled in us came alive again and, for the most part, brought us all back together. (Once, I picked up the phone, dialed her number as I had something really important to tell her.  I got so far as the disconnected number chime and recording before I remembered she was gone.) I get signs from her and am comforted with them. She comes to me in vivid dreams where she has a healthy & nourished look to her, though she rarely says a word.  Most recently she gave me an indisputable sign that would make me sound like a lunatic if I explained it.  She finds ways to "mother" me from her new home in Heaven.  Only now have I begun to savor those signs rather than mourn them.  Going on 11 years since her passing and I'm starting to find peace with it.   She's still with me each and every single day.  Sometimes, my daughter will look up at me and flash me a face and I could swear it was "mom". I treasure that and while part of my heart aches that she isn't sitting at this table with me, smoking like a chimney, criticizing some choice I've made, I know she lives on.

What was the point of this rambling blog?  Other than sharing a story that didn't paint her in the best light?  Well, the point is - go call your mom.  Even if she's a bitch.  Call her.  She's only on loan to you. We moms put up with a lot.  We make a lot of sacrifices to get you where you are now.  We got up and made you breakfast when we were tired.  We taught you how to pee and poop in the toilet.  We kissed your hurties.  We wanted to fight the world when someone hurt you.  We'd lay our lives down without question for our kids.  We're humans doing the jobs of super heroes.  Remind us that you notice.  On Monday, you can go back to leaving skidmarked undies on the floor and asking for money we don't have.  Give your momma one day, especially when she's given you all of hers.  :-) 

I Can Get You A Thumb By 3 o'clock. With Polish.

Part of accepting maturity is delaying gratification.  Tuesday night, I let me "T" take the wheel (that's a United States of Tara reference).  I had some extra money burning a hole in my pocket.  And I saw that Bath and Body Works was having a sale on hand soap and body wash.  Sure, I had hand soap.  But it wasn't some overpriced, over scented, migraine inducing, obnoxious aroma.  It was some plain ole Dial.  Ok - it was Cherry Blossom.  But it didn't come out in a foam.  I just (almost) finished decorating one of my bathrooms and I wanted it to look perfect.  Only B&BW soaps are going to be the perfect accessory. Sure, I have body wash too.  But, again, it's falls into the same category as the Dial.

So at 7:45 p.m. Mini-Me woke up from her nap and I decided to just run up really quick.  I packed little Q up and headed out the door.  We got to the store about 10 minutes later.  We entered and my baby girl was in awe.  This whole "girl" thing is still a wonder to me.  I know she's 1 1/2 but it is still a very large adjustment from the 3 boys.  I have a new found appreciation for girly things.  Seeing her little face light up when she sees something feminine!  Don't get me wrong, she has an incredible fondness for the boys' things too.  But she loves purses and "lip gloss" (read: an empty tube of  Chap Stick).  So as we are perusing the shelves and bins, we come across this ADORABLE little compact.  It was a small, bright yellow smiley face with a big red bow on it's head with a red rhinestone in the center of the bow that slid open and closed.  A toothy smile drew across her face, her legs kicked in excitement.  She giggled when she saw the pretty baby in the mirror. I melted.  Of course, it was hers.  She could put it in her little purse!  Maybe it was a combination of the toxic levels of perfumed potions mixed with the bright, flashy packaging and some spritz girl chasing me around with some "Island" scent - I didn't think. 

We finalized our purchase and the compact didn't leave her grasp the whole ride home.  As soon as we came in - She showed her prize off to her brothers and placed it into her purse.  She would pull it out every so often and smile at the baby smiling at her.  Wednesday morning, I told my Heterosexual Life Partner about it.  We gushed over the cuteness of a tiny girl holding a tiny mirror in her tiny hand.  The compact didn't get much thought until later.

Fast Forward to 3:00 p.m.  I'm clacking away at the keyboard, engulfed in work, listening to the kids play happily through the house.  Mini-Me traveled back to her brothers' room, which she does often.  Usually to snatch some "off limit" toy or to make The Youngest Boy cry.  Soon, she started fussing.  It was not a full fledged cry.  More like - bitching.  It sounded like she was trying to get something that was stuck and she was annoyed.  I got up to investigate.  I surely was not expecting the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  There she was, sitting on the bed, covered in blood.  Mainly because she was shaking her hand like she was trying to get a piece of tape off of her hand.  I didn't bother trying to figure out what caused it.  I grabbed her and ran to the bathroom.  I ordered all kids out of the bedroom until we could determine what happened.

Once in the bathroom, I had to clean her in order to find the origin of the bleeding.  The Oldest went to investigate the cause.  The Middle Son came in with a broken antenna from a CD player.  But that didn't seem likely.  I found the deep gash on the tip of Mini-Me's thumb.  She had fileted the tip.  And still not crying.  I put pressure on it for roughly 15 minutes.  The one thing that I've learned from 13 years in the pro wrestling business and 15 years raising sons - it's First Aid.  I've also amassed a very thorough First Aid kit that includes suture removers and other such tools (it helps that I have a sister who works in a medical office and that Michael used to).  The Oldest comes into the bathroom holding a bloody, broken compact.  Enough guilt set to rival Catholicism.  There weren't enough Hail Mary's to absolve me.  Why on Earth didn't I think about this?  Normally, I can look at an object and come up with at least 15 ways one of the kids can inflict injury on another of the kids using it.  I determined that I could not control the bleed.  I wrapped it in gauze and medical tape - tightly - hoping to stop the bleed.  Then I put a clean sock over it and then her shirt so that she couldn't pull it off on the way to the hospital. 

You know that you're a borderline terrible mother when you have an ER routine.  Each kid knows what to do, who to call and how to prepare.  The Oldest loaded up Mini-Me's diaper bag and made the call to grandma, The Middle Son started cleaning the blood trail while packing his things to take to Grandma's and The Youngest Son- well, he was just grateful that it wasn't him this time as he told Mini-Me of the amenities of Children's Medical Center as we piled into the car.  She just smiled and then fell asleep on the way.  Fortunately, Grandma lives seconds from the hospital.

Michael met us inside as we greeted the same P.A. that handled The Youngest Son's chin and broken jaw as well as his recent "tooth thru the cheek" just weeks ago.  First, he was going to stitch but once he got her cleaned up (and lidocained) he decided to cut the flap of skin and apply pressure.  Unfortunately, there was no stopping the bleeding.  He ordered a clotting agent which finally worked after 3 hours.  Not a whimper out of my baby!  The doctor looked at us and said "Her brothers are in trouble!  This is one tough little girl!"

She's going to have a scar.  And will NEVER, NEVER own another compact again.  Ever.  Even when she's like 40.  Nope.  No more.  Seriously - What the elf was I thinking?  Now, just feeling very blessed that she is okay and it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.