Blood

Blessed with as much "creative genius" (aka anxiety disorder) as I am, I can never guess what my nightmares will be made of.

Until today.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see the same thing: blood.

And a hole in the side of my oldest son's face. And a look of horror on the rest of it.

Blood. Hole. Pain.

This is not how I wanted my week to start: my son running downstairs in hysterics, blood streaming down his face, covering his hands. I tell myself I'm exaggerating, that it wasn't that bad. After all, there isn't any blood on the carpet--just a few wide swashes on the staircase where he steadied himself as he ran down to me.

I am trying not to lose my cool over the fact that I had repeatedly told him to stop what he was doing, get his socks and shoes on, and come down to breakfast. I am trying to forget the way his teeth chattered and his eyes screamed out to me when he was getting pricked over and over with a needle to get numbed up. I am trying to forget the look on his younger brother's face when the emergency room nurse uncovered the wound so we could all see it.

I am trying to block all of it out, but there it is every time I close my eyes.

One game of "tag." One sharp table corner. Five stitches (or seven, depending on who you ask). One Mom who hates blood and is still feeling faint. One impulsive little boy who may have, but probably didn't, learn some constructive life lesson from all of this.