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Thursday – Another Missed First
Jun. 18th, 2009 01:52 pm.
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I returned to work when my son was 8 weeks old, and as a result I've missed a lot of his firsts – those developmental milestones that mark a child's growth. The first time he rolled over, the first time he learned to creep around on his hands dragging his legs behind him like a baby seal (he learned to crawl properly on a weekend, so I was there for that one), the first time he stood, his first tentative steps – all were witnessed by daycare workers and not his mother.
Yesterday, I missed another milestone that all little boys achieve on their way to becoming men: his first trip to an emergency room to get stitches in a head wound that would not stop gushing blood no matter how many band-aids were applied to it. Once again, it was a babysitter and not his mother who was there to cheer him on.
"He was such a trooper! He was laughing with the nurses and didn't cry or scream or anything! You should have seen him!" Coco told me. He had tripped and hit his head on the corner of her square coffee table.
Yes, I should have. Sure, I got to give consent to treat him over the phone and to fax over my insurance card, but it's just not the same. Someone else drove him to the hospital, held him while a doctor examined him, and bought him ice cream afterward as a reward for sitting still while his head got sewn back up.
Sure, there will probably be other trips to the emergency room and other stitches. He is, after all, a little boy. But those will be reruns. There's only one first for everything, and once again I missed it.
It's not fair.
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Footnote: Yes, he's fine. Two little stitches, a slight bump, and a bruise. The coffee table is also fine.
.
.
I returned to work when my son was 8 weeks old, and as a result I've missed a lot of his firsts – those developmental milestones that mark a child's growth. The first time he rolled over, the first time he learned to creep around on his hands dragging his legs behind him like a baby seal (he learned to crawl properly on a weekend, so I was there for that one), the first time he stood, his first tentative steps – all were witnessed by daycare workers and not his mother.
Yesterday, I missed another milestone that all little boys achieve on their way to becoming men: his first trip to an emergency room to get stitches in a head wound that would not stop gushing blood no matter how many band-aids were applied to it. Once again, it was a babysitter and not his mother who was there to cheer him on.
"He was such a trooper! He was laughing with the nurses and didn't cry or scream or anything! You should have seen him!" Coco told me. He had tripped and hit his head on the corner of her square coffee table.
Yes, I should have. Sure, I got to give consent to treat him over the phone and to fax over my insurance card, but it's just not the same. Someone else drove him to the hospital, held him while a doctor examined him, and bought him ice cream afterward as a reward for sitting still while his head got sewn back up.
Sure, there will probably be other trips to the emergency room and other stitches. He is, after all, a little boy. But those will be reruns. There's only one first for everything, and once again I missed it.
It's not fair.
Footnote: Yes, he's fine. Two little stitches, a slight bump, and a bruise. The coffee table is also fine.
