I dropped my child on her head today. Because I’m awesome like that.
Ok, that’s a slight exaggeration. I didn’t exactly drop her on her head. I put her on the couch and let her roll off onto the floor. (And by “let her”, I mean I walked away to make her a bottle and ran back into the room when I heard a very distinctive *thump*.)
It’s official. I’m officially that mom. The one that just puts her infant daughter on furniture and then carelessly walks away, leaving her to learn about things like gravity on her own. I might as well have left a lit cigarette next to her and turned up the hard rock so as to drown out her wailing.
Anyway, it tanked our whole day. I called the pediatrician and was told to check for swelling, vomiting, and excessive drowsiness. So, I poked her everywhere until she cried, underfed her to not irritate her stomach, and refused to let her take her afternoon nap. By the time Kyle got home, Eva wanted to rent her own apartment. In Jersey.
I wanted to take her to the hospital, but I’ve been assured by multiple people that I would be sent home with the same instructions that my pediatrician already gave me. I guess elective CAT scans on infants isn’t really something they like to do. I did, however, stay home this evening (missing a glass of wine with a dear friend) because I needed to check her pupils for uneven dilation. I also Googled “infant concussion five months head injury”, which might be the most terrifying search query in the world. Thanks to Google, I’m going to stay up tonight and wake Eva up occasionally to make sure that she still wakes up. Then I’m going to do it again tomorrow. I’ll pretty much be her favorite person.
The worst part about it is that we have no language established by which I can tell her, “I’m sorry, I love you, and I really thought that couch pillow was a large enough buffer. I promise that you will not fall off of any more furniture until you are old enough for it to be your own fault and not mine.”