On Saturday, Jack experienced what must certainly be considered our first childhood injury of any significance. He somehow managed to put his teeth through his tongue.
We are not sure how; it was quite far towards the back of the tongue, but man, it was big. And gaping. And probably sore, because our own family garbage disposal ate nothing but powdered (reconstituted) “chicken” noodle soup for two days. It bled a lot, too, which is why I consider it our first brush with disfigurement. The first of many, I’m sure, for my little goalie-in-training. We figure he must have been performing some sort of acrobatic Spiderman-inspired manoeuvre on the furniture, while licking his eyebrows, when he slipped and smacked his chin on a toy, unfortunately placed many metres (rooms) from where it actually belongs.
I feel most sorry for the kid, not because he practically bit his tongue right through, but because he has a nurse for a mother. Nurses are either too concerned, or not concerned enough. At first, it was not enough, because when I was following him to the bathroom where he spit what probably seemed to him like alarming and copious amounts of blood into the sink, I was checking the carpet to make sure he didn’t get any on it. Then, after the initial excitement wore off, the pendulum of worry swng the other way, as I started thinking about his heart murmur and valve damage from strep infections as a result of injury to the oral cavity, blah blah blah. I called a healthcare hotline that night and was reassured that salt water rinses would be sufficient, and in a few short days it has healed perfectly.
My poor kids. They are either underprotected or overprotected. There’s no middle ground here.
Oh, well, someday, they will have this blog to take to their therapists. It should explain a lot.