Honestly, I feel like this is something they don't emphasize enough in whatever class they never offer on how to be a parent.
Sure you expect some blood at first, and you're not disappointed, because every human is ushered into this unforgiving world in a crimson torrent of gore so extensive and enduring, you wonder how anyone could possibly survive it.
I'm not a huge fan of blood, my own or anyone else's. Which is why I went to law school instead of medical school, and why I'll never become a midwife or a doula. No one is going to die because I said the wrong thing in an email, and hopefully I'll never contract HIV or Ebola from 500 pages of discovery. Also, I will never put my face into another woman's crotch and murmur encouraging things into it as I guide her viscera-drenched spawn up to her sweaty boobs.
No, nope, nay, non, and nein. I am not about that life.
I am also not about watching a pint of blood pour from my kid's face just past airport security, 16 minutes before our flight leaves, and after he careens like a spinning top into the sharp metal edge of a staircase at the Missoula airport.
But sometimes life hands you such minor inconveniences.
I knew this wasn't the typical "owie-chondriac" moment when I saw Isaac, both hands over his face, with blood pouring through his fingers and spilling out onto his shirt. This is not a welcome sight to a mother's eyes, and Paige yammering in my ear with sudden concern and advice for the plight of the little brother she tortures daily was not helping my state of mind.
I dismissed Paige with a sharp tongue and firmly took hold of Isaac in order to ascertain the source of the bleeding, watching in vague horror as my bright orange jacket, jeans, and hands quickly became drenched in a sea of red. I caught the eye of a TSA agent and calmly asked if we could get some medical assistance, as this was clearly not a band-aid level, DIY-type injury fix.
A few minutes later, several friendly and official-looking individuals had materialized from nowhere and were tending to Isaac. I'm sure they were happy to be dealing with a small cut on the forehead of a rambunctious six year-old boy instead of some other shady airport-related drama like unidentified white powder or a belligerent passenger screaming about Hillary Bitches or bombs or something.
Speaking of newborn babies, one of the EMT/airport police people (pictured second below) literally looked young enough to be nursing off my titties. But he claimed to have three boys of his own (ages 4, 6, and 8) and said I could fix the wound with Krazy Glue.
Several bandages and one bag of Famous Amos cookies later, we were on our way and not much the worse for wear. In reflecting on what we have to be thankful for, I can say (among many things) that I'm thankful this particular cut looked a lot worse than it was, and for the nice folks at the Missoula airport who fixed Isaac up.
I'm also thankful that my sister-in-law took my kids to see Trolls and I didn't have to go, but that's a separate matter.