Sundays are always a little hectic for my family because it is the only day my husband and I are home at the same time, therefore, one of us is always trying to catch up on household or yard duties or errands while the other one watches our son.
Sometimes, we will run errands together with our son, which is always an adventure. This past Sunday, Max got a sucker stuck in his hair at Harbor Freight and then spent the entire trip to Lowe's yelling for more M&Ms and trying to convince us to let him play with a box cutter. Why is it that little boys always pick out the most dangerous thing in their surrounding area to want to play with?
After my son's nap that afternoon, my husband went outside to install a water pump under our house while I tried to feed Max a snack and do general mommy duties. For one reason or another, my son was incredibly difficult to deal with that day. He was into everything, making messes, never still, pinching the dogs, he wouldn't eat, he was just being a pill.
So, I decided to give him one of the toys he got for Christmas last year from a relative. We didn't let him have it at the time because we thought he was too young for it. It is a tractor with very, VERY small pieces that can be put together and taken apart and I thought we could work on it together to keep my son engaged in a new project.
The toys were in our closet, stacked on top of my jewelry box and then on top of some of Max's birthday presents for this year. We have no storage in this old house, so things are tucked in every nook and cranny and stacked up wherever possible.
What I didn't realize was that my husband had braced the box with my wedding dress in it, which was partly hanging off of the top shelf, on top of these presents and then placed his two camera bags and his antique rifle on top of the dress box. Would have been good to know.
As I reached up on my tippy toes and pulled down the tractor toy box, suddenly a wave of brutality fell down from the top shelf onto my head. First the camera bags. Then the wedding dress box. And then, the monster of them all, the heaviest freaking rifle in the world.
I thought for sure my skull was cracked. I haven't felt that much pain since childbirth. In a span of about five seconds, the time it took for me to run from my closet to the back door to get my husband, a huge bump had already formed on the back of my head.
I was bawling and I was terrified. I started having visions of being 8 months pregnant and dropping dead from a brain bleed. I have never been hit in the head that hard.
We started taking inventory of my symptoms: Did I have a headache? No. Was my vision blurry? No. Was I vomiting? No. Were my pupils dilated? No. Was I nauseated? No. Was I sleepy? No. Was I in more pain than Pat Robertson at a Gay Pride Parade? Yes. Was I sweating more than Sarah Palin on a quiz show about government policy? Yes. Did I have more anxiety than my grandmother the first time I wore ripped jeans in 1989? Yes.
Excruciating pain, sweating and anxiety aside, we decided that I was going to be okay. But first, I cried for a loooooong time, took two Tylenol, and put an ice pack on my head. And then tried to keep my son from throwing his Darth Vader at my skull.
Naturally, I didn't sleep well that night because it hurt to put pressure on my head, but the swelling was gone by the next morning and only a little tenderness remained.
And I don't think I am any dumber than I was before...might have crushed a few brain cells...won't be sure until after the baby is born and the hormones stop affecting my brain function...and that could be a very, very, very long time.