Setting: Sunday night I am relaxing in front of the telly, watching and episode or two. The terrorist is happily ambling about the living room.
Sidebar: The terrorist has this nasty little habit where he picks up anything that is made of glass, looks you right in the eye, and then promptly drops it onto the tile floor, only to shatter into a million little pieces. Let me be clear on this, if you were to see the look in the little bugger’s eyes, you too would know that this was no mere accident. *Maybe my boss was right when he said that kids are tiny little psychopaths …now hang on before you light your torches and camp on my front lawn…psychopathic behaviour is defined as someone having little or no regret, and little or no remorse – except when they are caught, now tell me honestly-anyone out there that has kids-how does this not sound familiar?
Anyway, so he was happily ambling along, eating the remote, chasing the cat, climbing onto the couch, climbing over me, walking behind me on the couch…you know, being ‘around’.
Next moment he discovers the box of grape juice that I had been hiding under the table, and wouldn’t you know it, it had several glass bottles inside.
He promptly picked one up just to drop it on the floor, there was juice everywhere. When he realised what he had done he tried to get away from the scene of the crime as fast as his little legs could carry him, which resulted in utter chaos.
He slipped on the juice and fell into the glass shards of the broken bottle.
All of this happened in one nano-second.
You know those situations where you see something is about to happen and you get to the point of origin and try and prevent it, but it is like you have some muck under your feet and it seems like seconds are hours? I could see the bottle slipping, I sprang up and shouted at him to stand still, which unfortunately may have been the reason why he tried to ‘flee’ the scene.
I ended up scooping him up out of the mess, running around trying to find a clean towel, thought better and found a not so clean towel to throw over the mess on the floor so that I dont slip with him in my arms, ran to the car to find the first aid kit-all while he is screaming his little heart out and bleeding all over the show.
So I put him in his high chair and started washing off the blood, to reveal, much to my amazement two cuts (with the amount of blood that I saw I imagined that we were at least dealing with a near amputation). But there it was, one cut on his left palm-not deep enough to need stiches, and another on his right big toe, no need for stitches either. But me being a first time mom, I was standing there, vacillating between the car keys and the savlon swab, all the while sobbing like I really was dealing with an amputation.
A mere two minutes into the ordeal the terrorist began coo-ing and giggling when I swabbed at his foot. I was deeply suspicious of this behaviour-I have read that people who were near the ‘end’ suddenly became coherent and acted like nothing in the world was the matter, but when he started chewing the betadine plasters from his wounds, I knew, this was no false ‘breath of life’ but the real maccoy, he was okay.
I on the other hand, needed a couple of glasses of wine and a shit-fit directed at the DH before I felt like a human being again.
Today the terrorist is acting like nothing happened at all, so at least I have not broken him…yet.