Eli and I raked and mowed the lawn this morning while Helen napped. E. was such a good listener and did such a good job. Then on the way to the house he caught his foot in a hole and fell down. He proceeded to crawl around, crying, not putting any weight on his foot for the next hour. I called the doctor's office and the nurse said I needed to bring him in... to their partner's office the next town over.
Scott always tells me not to overreact, to which I respond, "You're right, you're right. I know you're right," and then do it anyway--arranging for someone else to pick K. up at early dismissal, berating myself for not packing any food for lunch or enough diapers for the baby, wondering how long we might be at the doctor's office/hospital, envisioning life with a two-year old in a cast ("How will we bathe him?!?"), making panicked phone calls while Eli screams in the backseat of the van ("I DON'T WANT A BAND-AID!! IS FEEL BETTER NOW!!")
Well. It is just a mild sprain. Thank goodness. The doctor had never met us before, and he gently reminded me that kids this age are often more scared than hurt. I tried to explain how unusual this behavior is for E., and the doctor just smiled kindly. Whatever. Eli is fine, and that's what's important.
But now I feel all jangly and full of nervous energy I need to burn off. I feel the way I did when Scott and I were driven from our wedding ceremony to our reception. Friends had left a split of champagne in the backseat. We finished it on the 10-minute drive, and it didn't even make a dent in my nerves. It just made me stop shaking. Maybe I'll go out for some therapeutic Christmas shopping tonight and bring home a bottle of wine to split with Scott.