Wipeout!

Warning: the following post may contain disturbing images of blood and/or pus, taken with a camera that is not my own. Recommended for mature audiences only.

So the other day at work, my cell phone rings.

If my cell rings while I'm at work, it's usually one of three things: 1) a child with a problem, 2) a child asking permission to go somewhere, or 3) an injured child. So, my cell rings. At work.

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Dear Son: um, Anyu? Can you, I mean, maybe not right now, but on your way home? Could you like, bring some Band-aids?

Me: Son, I just bought Band-Aids. They're in the hall closet.

Dear Son: Yeah but, I mean some really big ones.

Me: What happened?!

Dear Son: No, don't worry, I know you're at work, I'll just tell you when you get home. So can you bring the Band-Aids? Like the biggest size?

What?

Oh. My bad. I was going to worry, but now I'll just get back to that spreadsheet.

What goes through their heads? You don't call your mom at work, drop some shit like, "I need some really big Band-aids, but hey, don't worry!" and expect your mom to just be like, "OK, no biggie, now where was I on that spreadsheet?"

Please.

So when you say really big, do you mean really big as in bigger than the Extra Large Flexible Fabric Knee & Elbow Band-aids that I just bought, and are in the hall closet? Really? Bigger than the ginormous gauze pads that are in said closet, too?

Sure. I won't give that a second thought.

Turns out he had a slight accident on his bike. On his way to the football workout. Trying to jump a curb. My first question was, "Is your head ok?? Were you wearing your helmet?" (Hey, I'm a mom, what do you want?)

It is, and he was.

Tore up both knees and hands, with the right knee being a particularly nasty pus-fest. Big old raspberry with some nice deep cuts embedded with sand and dirt. Wore the hair in that spot down to a fine stubble. Coach sprayed it with some sort of antiseptic spray, and Dear Son sucks it up and benches 170. (That's my boy, right there!)

The pain kicked in later. Along with the swelling and stiffness. That night, Tough Guy asked if I could "get him a crutch."

The boy, bless his heart, tried to treat it before I got home with the really big Band-aids. To his credit, he did wash it. ("All these little bits of rocky stuff rinsed out of there. It was pretty cool," he later informed me.) He then put a gauze pad on it.

With no Neosporin.

No ointment of any kind. Yeah. Between that and the tape ripping his new Manly Leg Hair off like a cheap wax job, he was not a happy camper. Luckily, he had some nice ooze going on, so the gauze pad wasn't permanently fused to his mega-berry.

Here's the medical documentation of The Wound, as he calls it.

Post-wipeout

Mom's Doctorin' Skillz

Second night. Note the nice slick coating.

Who needs the local HMO when you've got Mom's Family Practice, with no deductible OR copay?

The above documentation was, of course, done using kids' cameras. Somehow oozing wound photography just isn't the same, without dear Camera.