Oh, dear, how remiss of me.
It seems that the tearing apart of a mother’s mind, and her forcing to make difficult decisions, is not quite as popular a topic as how a child creates a lovely pattern of colour on a white cloth.
I totally agree. Pffft to the torment on a woman’s mind. The gory details are way more interesting.
So … how did he make the lovely red pattern on the square of white cloth?
Well … and here’s a fun DIY craft activity at little cost if you’re looking for something to do with the kids in the holidays, or, you know, when your life has no room for anything else … it’s cheap, entertaining, and keeps the kids occupied, regardless of how boring or busy you life is at the given moment.
We used an old cloth nappy, which we purchased sme 15 plus years ago, when we were deluded and euphoric, and not yet appreciative of reality. Mostly, however, we purchased them to wipe up shit (literallly), spew, spills, and to protect my daggy old t-shirts from the bodily fluids babies expel from time to time.
In this instance, it was a child, and it was blood. The pattern was created by the scrunching up of said cloth nappy, and applying pressure to the bleeding head of the child. Clearly, it was scrunched up in just the right way to create such a beautiful pattern.
What we didn’t capture an image of was the body painting, that, according to the seven-year-old in question, looked like he’d “been attacked by a velociraptor”. This had strips of red running the length of his torso, a look that was created by him sitting on his bed, naked, blood streaming from the wound on his forehead, down his face and body, whilst he screamed and hoped that someone would come to his aid.
That we constantly reinforce that if he hurts himself, or needs us, he needs to come to us, or call for us, and not just cry, is just as constantly ignored. He prefers the drama of crying, and the waiting for someone to come to him. Far more exciting, apparently.
And the wound infliction itself?
Ah, that was a result of walking across a LEGO, clothes, and other child-detritus floor in the dark. The dreaded Discarded Wet Towel, lying placid and seemingly of no threat whatsoever leapt up, entangled itself in his feet, causing him to tip forward until he came to an abrupt halt when his forehead met the wooden based of his bed.
T’was bound to happen at some point.
And, yes, why thank you for asking. I did use the incident to get on my soap box and rant about shit being on floors, and now do they understand why I am persistently asking them for, at the very least, a clear path from door to bed.
To be honest, in those moments, I was only thinking of myself. I really don’t want to face plant into LEGO City, nor, indeed, the edge of a bed.
It’s fine when you’re 7, but is apparently “not the done thing” when you’re a mother.