So, okay. On Friday I had this whole story to tell you -- one of those Classic Blog Fodder stories, in which someone (SPOILER: ME) basically ends up looking like a complete moron, start to finish. Even I'm still shaking my head at myself, trying to figure out how I manage to get through life on a daily basis without setting myself on fire or get to the grocery store without ending up in Newark.
But then Evidence To Support The Dumbass Hypothesis Exhibit 456 happened and derailed my entire day and writing process, since oh, I was a little too busy trying to explain to our pediatrician how my baby managed to accidentally burn himself with a curling iron.
Is there anything that sounds quite so inherently abusive and neglectful than a curling iron burn? Sure, knees get skinned, heads get bruised, fingers get pinched, but a curling iron burn? That's a damned Law & Order episode, right there.
It's all Noah's fault, really, as he ruined us forever by being such a SENSIBLE TODDLER. We had a couple collisions with furniture and one fall down the stairs, but he never, ever exhibited Ezra's hellbent determination to injure himself on a daily basis. The curling iron was off (but still hot, OBVIOUSLY), it was pushed a good six inches away from the edge of the bathroom sink counter, and the cord had been carefully piled on top, out of the reach of small, grabby beings.
But then a small, grabby being got up on his damn tiptoes and -- using a hairbrush I'd unwittingly traded in exchange for a moment's peace -- managed to hook the cord in the brush bristles and pull the whole thing down on himself, with the still-hot barrel of the iron scalding the crook of his elbow.
Where was his mother, you might ask? Oh, you know, she was right there, in the same room, less than a foot and a half away, even. She'd even brought him into the room with her on purpose, so he would not be free to wreak havoc elsewhere.
In other words, yes, I was peeing.
I do have to give Ez props for his good timing, as we were headed to the pediatrician ANYWAY for Noah's four-year checkup. (Which is why the curling iron had been taken out of deep storage in the first place; I only get that fancy for people with at LEAST three framed diplomas.) And that was really fun, being all, heeeeeeyyyyy yeah can we forget about the four-year-old (yeah, the one with no skin on his knees, uh-huh) for a sec and talk about whether the little one will be requiring skin grafts? Maybe some donor tissue from MY NEGLECTFUL ASS?
(He's completely fine, obviously. Neosporin, bandage, tape, long sleeves to keep him from messing with the bandage and tape, no Cone of Shame required. Except maybe a small one, for me.)
(You may be happy to hear that Jason took the news of this injury a little better than usual. I chickened out and emailed him. Like, way after the fact. His response: Damn, he is determined.)
(I should probably mention that Ezra is not yet officially walking unassisted yet, so his range of destruction is limited to cruising along the furniture and walls and scaling over various barricades that I construct in front of stairs and reachable surfaces, and I can still easily beat his top crawling speed. I am, without a doubt, utterly terrified of what this child will be able to accomplish once he is walking.)
(Hmm. It appears that I do not have a clever finish to this entry, and am simply floundering in an endless string of parentheticals. So perhaps I should just stop typing and let you all move on with your lives, instead of forcing you to hear about another ultimately minor injury sustained by the Storch children while their mother stood helplessly by, like GOD, maybe if she actually stopped blogging about them for five minutes a day she might actually try parenting them, and this stuff wouldn't happen.)
(Eh, that sounds kind of too hard. I think I'll just wrap them up in some bubble wrap and keep them in a pen. I have pretty good Cheerio-tossing aim from over the top of my laptop.)