Decide to do something holiday-y today and off we head to the river for a spot of bbq lunch and fishing.
Within minutes – actually, I think it was seconds – of us setting up, Chippie throws a tantrum because his grandfather removed a cigarette butt from his mouth and Godzilla gets the fishing hook caught on some rocks and gives up.
Calming Chippie, locating somewhere cigarette butt free for him to sit (not hard, give there was 1 cigarette butt in the vacinity, which he managed to find in amongst multitude fallen leaves and twigs) and retreive the rod before it slid down the bank to join its snagged hook, I ask Monkey Boy to hold the rod so I can climb down to untangle the line and commence what we came to do. Monkey Boy, in all his boyness, kicks off his shoes and scrambles down the bank, releasing the line and scaling back up to have a fling of the rod.
Bored after 13 seconds of not catching anything, he hands it back to me in a way that catches the hook again, so back down the bank he heads. The hook is much harder to retrieve this time, particularly as a boat zooms past, causing a wash that covers Monkey Boy’s feet and causes him to slip.
And draws blood.
The pain then kicks in and I get to do that Calming From a Distance Whilst Child Is Racing To Get To You From A Precarious And Potentially More Dangerous Spot whilst trying to recall what first aid supplies I may or may not have in the nappy bag (first aid supplies, along with baby panadol, and kids panadol and grown ups panadol for that matter, also left at home).
Locate mostly clean tissue (only minisculy snotty) to stop flow of blood and try to get good look at cut whilst Monkey Boy screams – in pain or because he can, I’m not quite sure. Thankfully the cuts aren’t deep, except perhaps for the small chunk taken out just above his ankle, but appear to be packed with black gunk. I really don’t want to think about consequences, nor do I want another trip to hospital these particular holidays. Squirt some water on it, whack several bandaids on, spend some minutes letting him know it’s ok to get off the seat and stop reading book and it’s unlikely he will experience any dire, life threatening situations given the activities we have planned for the rest of the day.
Go home after eating all food, catching no fish and Godzilla goes for a swim. If you consider stepping into river water up to your mid-calves a “swim”. Convince Monkey Boy to sit whilst I have a good look at his cuts, and the bits of oyster shell and grit in them. Icky. Get hands on antispetic and a decent pair of tweezers, argue for some minutes with Grumpy over who gets to pull the icky bits out, I pull the “mum” card, along with innate desire to care for child that is way beyond any comprehension and trump him.
He gets to hold Monkey Boy down, though, and watch.
Delicately, as delicately as possible given the screaming and writhing from Monkey Boy, I remove several pieces of grit and shell from the cuts, add some more bandaids and experience a relief that I have, singlehandedly reduced the potential for infection and trips to doctors and hospitals.
And a sense of satisfaction that is inevitable when removing foreign objects from body parts.
Or perhaps that sense of satisfaction was a subconscious reaction brought on by payback after the “squish”iness and public pregnancy comments of yesterday … who knows …