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November 13, 2007

Bloody Sunday

It wasn’t the pickax Drew wielded overhead, bringing it down steadily onto a concrete block, repeatedly, until it was crushed into Oreo-sized bits. When I saw the shards flying about, I made him put on a pair of safety glasses. That was a good mom-move, but I could have made it fifteen minutes earlier.

While Drew chipped away at the block, Porter collected a variety of sharp, rust-covered objects and placed them into the sand pile, creating an ancient village. All of us are up to date on our tetanus shots, so I let this activity continue.

Nor did I stymie their attempts to climb onto the roof of the storage shed. They worked up quite a sweat in the process and came in for water and Goldfish.

Later the duo got their BB guns and walked to the pond to hunt. They returned in high spirits, having shot the head off a turtle. Was this part of growing up male, I wondered, or did it foreshadow Dahmer-like tendencies?

Either way, I didn’t have time to ponder long, because that’s when I heard a whimper from Drew and, “Mom, Drew needs you and there’s blood!” from Porter.

The culprit was the fish knife, encased in an intriguingly decorated leather case. It sliced deep into Drew’s thumb, and blood spewed onto the porch that I had swept not five minutes earlier.

blood

I left Porter at the house with his grandmother on the way while Drew and I rushed to the emergency room. He’s a tough kid, but tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he complained of feeling dizzy.

The doctor came and asked Drew what he’d been doing that morning. I tensed up, hoping Drew wouldn’t go into the excruciating detail that is his habit. It wasn’t even noon, and the boy had chopped concrete, scaled buildings, murdered helpless animals and slashed his thumb. And those were only the activities I had witnessed. None of this made me look like the mother of the year.

Perhaps because of the gallons of blood he’d lost, Drew murmured only that he’d been opening the fishing knife and cut himself. He then endured a terse lecture from the ER doctor on the danger of playing with knives, while I gave thanks that the doctor didn’t know the half of it.

Once they numbed his thumb in preparation for stitches, Drew cheered up quickly. In fact, he was he was too peppy for my liking. I caught him looking at his identification bracelet, which said “Age/Sex” in large letters, and snickering.

“Why do they have to put that word on there?” he asked, pointing. He wasn’t pointing to the word “Age.”

“So the doctors and nurses know you’re a nine-year-old male, and don’t get you mixed up with that granny down the hall.” She was moaning, “Lord Jesus, I was at the altar, and then I was at the hospital. Just take me home now.”

I made a mental note to ask Finn whether he and Drew had been discussing matters of a reproductive nature. I may have to dust off my Talk and prepare to give it again, solo this time.

While we waited for the stitches, we admired Drew’s socks. They reflected a full morning of whacking, hunting and climbing and were destined for the trash, so I captured them for posterity.

sox

Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: All About You

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 9:43 am • Boys: Demented & Dangerous   

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18 Responses to “Bloody Sunday”

  1. Are you TRYING to give me a nervous breakdown?! Like I need anything else to dread! They’re already trying to take off fingers with dresser drawers and high diving off any stationary object they can climb. I need drugs and lots of them. STAT!

  2. Ah yes, the proverbial “pre-teen boy slicing his thumb open with a knife” trick. Mine did that a few years back. The friend he was with about lost his lunch, but we were stoic. Didn’t need stitches…well it probably did but I just wrapped it up good and it was fine. Boys will be boys.

  3. Oh my lord. That has just put my two’s “flooding the house whilst making icebergs” experiment into the shade!

  4. Holy cow!
    I see my children doing those things in a few years. Seeing as one (13 mos) is scaling everything in the house in his attempt to be the youngest mountain climber ever, and his sister, well she’s an acrobat of the most frightening degrees!
    May I come crying to you for help and advice, please?
    Sounds like you handled it wonderfully, mom!
    Good job and great pics!

  5. A real turtle…?

  6. You want to know what I got out of this? Boy, boy, dead turtle, boy, boy,blood, dirty socks. My head is spinning. You need some estrogen in that house. Maybe make them wear a patch or something?

    It sounds like a wonderful, fun, loving home to grow up in. Can I move in?

  7. gotta love life with boys. never a dull or safe moment!

  8. Oh dear god. I am so glad that he’s no worst for the wear. Bless his heart.

    Now you’ve got me wondering what have I gotten myself into this Christmas. Boo mentioned having a BB gun, and I was like, yeah, okay. And my dad acted like a 3 year old when I told him. Oye, am I in for it now! Life with boys, is never dull!

  9. Shooting the Head off a Turtle ? Troubling to say the least.

  10. He’ll be hauling you over his shoulder in a few years if he grows into those feet!

  11. Could they GET any more boyish?! Poor Drew though.

    Just noticed I’m the only non-southerner on the Live Traffic Feed. I feel like such an outsider. :p

  12. A real turtle? That kind of bothers me. Good thing it wasn’t his brother’s eye. The boy scouts teach boys the proper way to handle knives (and BBguns).

  13. They should stick to squirrels – much less sympathetic than turtles.

  14. I don’t know…there were some big ass snapping turtles in the pond when I was a kid. It was a public service to off those nasty buggers.

  15. Call me crazy, but I’d be sticking those socks in a plastic baggie and keepin’ em for posterity – or to bring out when he has kids someday. Too great of a story to not pass down …

  16. I LOVE that you had your camera with you at the hospital 😉 he he And your boy stories make me smile. Mine are young still, 3 and 5, so your blog gives me insight of what’s to come. Although I could just look around the house or listen for a while and see it in front of me. Boys are something else, aren’t they? I love it 🙂

    Hope he is feeling ok now and enjoying showing off his wounds 😉

  17. Aak! Here I am, the mother of a 10-month-old boy, and I am suddenly realizing some of the “fun” that awaits me as he grows…

    **sigh**

    Thank goodness my mother is a nurse. Now I just need to find out if we have a doctor in the neighborhood…

  18. My six year old daughter has been in the emergency room at least once a year since birth. I don’t think it’s boys; I think children in general like to live on the edge of reason and torment us with glimpses of the grisly ends they could come to!

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I'm Anne Glamore, wife, mother, lawyer and blogger. I have three boys, and I'm desperately trying to train them to become Southern gentlemen, but that may be an unrealistic goal. At this point I'd be ecstatic if they'd quit farting at the dinner table. If you're new here, check out the Readers' Favorite Posts below or browse through the Categories. I write about my attempts to teach the boys about peckers and sex (which we call "making googly eyes"), my struggles with hepatitis C and spine surgery, the boys' adventures with fire and pets, my mom's death from ovarian cancer, my love of cooking (with plenty of recipes) and anything else that crosses my mind. Join me on Twitter or StumbleUpon or Email me. I'm happy to speak to your group or club.

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