Daddy's Fish BowlA Clear View Of A Father's Family Experiences

They say a man with no scars is no man at all...Welcome to Manliness Tre

My favorite number is the number 5.  I don’t know why, it just is.  There isn’t anything special about the number 5, it’s just a number that I like and if you ask me my favorite number, the answer will always be 5.  Tre on the other hand probably won’t respond in the same way.  You see, I love the number 5 even though I have no true reason to do so, but Tre now has exactly 5 reasons to hate that number and I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Tre’s reasons were sewn in one by one; I’m talking about stitches, I watched all five of them go in and ever since, the number 5 and I haven’t been the best of friends.  I’ve even considered changing my Twitter name to eliminate the memory of those 5 stitches.  Tre’s journey with “The Five” as the stitches will now be called, began last weekend  I had just handed in my resignation and finished up a conversation with my boss when I returned to my desk to find a voicemail and a few texts from Fefe.  Checking the voicmail revealed a frantic Fefe on the phone, rambling on about heading to the doctor, blood everywhere, Tre and a big gash.  I made out as much as I could before heading to my manager’s office and telling him that I was leaving.  I know he was probably thinking: “The nerve of this kid; resigns from his position and then leaves early on top of it”.  I knew it wasn’t the most graceful exit, but judging by Fefe’s voicemail, this was pretty serious.
 
When I arrived at the doctor’s office, the picture shown above was the first thing I saw.  Inside, I was pretty worried, but Fefe’s face and Tre’s teary eyes wouldn’t allow me to show it.  Fefe explained that Tre was jumping on the bed and went to jump off but hit his head on one of the dresser drawers.  He seemed to be acting fine, so to lighten the mood I went into my best American Idol impression and started singing an impromptu version of “5 Little Monkeys”; gosh darn it, there goes that number 5 again, smh.  I substituted monkeys with Tre’s name and after a while he joined in with me.  That has to be a good sign right, a kid spewing blood everywhere, but still singing nursery rhymes? 
 
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, the doctor finally came in and the procedure was about to begin.  I don’t know if any of you have ever witnessed snitches being inserted, but it definitely isn’t something for the weak at heart.  The nurses strapped Tre down to a board and the carefree singing of those monkeys jumping on the bed went straight out of the window.  I could tell that he knew something was about to happen, but neither of us knew exactly what we were in store for.  Maybe Tre knew more than me because he tried his best to talk his way out of his current predicament.  Once he was strapped down and saw the doctor putting on gloves, he was quick to tell me that “It (the wound) don’t hurt him anymore”, I guess he figured if he wasn’t in pain, there was no need for the doctor to do any work.  Oh how wrong he was.
 
To apply the stitches, they numb the area with a local anesthetic.  Since Tre’s injury was on his forehead, this meant sticking a needle into his forehead.  Can you imagine having a needle stuck into your forehead?  This was the most excruciating part; they had to numb several areas, so they stuck him well over a half dozen times.  Each stick entailed placing the needle under the skin directly in the open wound and secreting the numbing agent.  Man oh man did Tre holler and scream during this part.  He pleaded with me several times “not to let that doctor get him” and it broke my heart to sit there and be unable to “protect” Tre from those who were out to “get him”.  However, once the anesthetic kicked in, he was perfectly fine.  He sat still during the extensive stitching process and allowed the doctor to piece together his “V” shaped injury without another tear.
 
Once we were in the car, he told me that he had fun at the doctor’s and thanked me for taking him; I’m beginning to believe there was a little something more powerful than numbing agent in that anesthetic that they gave him.  It had to be in order to make this boy think that getting 5 stitches sewn into his forehead was even remotely close to fun.
 
Once we returned home, the first thing he does?  Yup, you guessed it, jumps on the bed.  Fefe told him to stop; I was ready to let him keep going.  Yes he was still jumping, but his jumps were more cautious now, more calculated.  You know the old sayings: “if you fall off, get back up and try again”, “boys will be boys”, and “accidents happen”.  Well I’m a firm believer in these and his reduction in recklessness shows that he did learn some kind of lesson.  We did limit his jumping and ensured that he no longer jumped near the dresser and so far so good.  The stitches came out a few days ago and he didn’t cry a bit.  He’s still a daredevil and I for one am glad that this incident didn’t kill his spirits.

Stitches removed, let the healing begin

 
So what do you think?  When a child has an accident that causes an injury, should that behavior be eliminated?  Should the overly cautious fairy godmother come in and limit all things fun?  Or should we let nature take its course and deal with the bumps and bruises along the way???