Just call him Bruiser

Elyse was the first. While we were living in Ireland, she fell and bonked the corner of her eye on a chair and we had to wake up our doctor who lived down the street. Ten minutes later, she walked out with an already-blackening eye and one stitch.


















Aidan is now the second of our children to have to receive stitches. This time it was two. He was trying to be such a good helper to me, making sure I put enough miracle whip in the chicken salad. His foot suddenly slipped off the chair and BAM...his little chin slammed into the corner of the counter. I heard the bone hit it; it sounded like it hurt. "Is there blood?" he frantically asked amidst the sobbing. "No. I don't see any...oh wait, uh...yeah, here it comes," as I run to get a rag...no, not that one...the red one...yeah, no stains. (Isn't that horrible?!?) "We'll call daddy at work. He'll know what to do." We did, and he did. He always does.

While I stayed and minded the chicken salad (a much more comfort-zonish type of place for me), Daddy took our brave little bruiser in to the walk-in clinic, and out he walked--one shot, lots of tears, and two stitches later. But, daddy said he was brave and that all the nurses thought our little guy was so cute. Well, of course... ;)