We're sitting on the couch after putting Evan to bed. Listening to him talk to himself as he falls asleep, when out of nowhere he starts to cry. It's not the "I don't want to go to sleep" cry, more like the "I've plummeted from my crib and injured myself" cry. Jeff and I both leap up and race for the stairs. To make better time, I kick off my slippers - forgetting how little traction my socks get on the wood floor. I head for the first corner at crazy panicking-mom speeds and wipe out harder than anyone has ever wiped out before (possibly.) Some type of leg/foot combination slammed into the bathroom door, while the rest of my body went in the complete opposite direction.
In agonizing pain, I screamed to Jeff as he stopped to check on me, "go on without me." At some point I peel myself off the floor and limp up the stairs to survey the damage my son had most surely sustained.
He was fine.
Jeff said he was just laying in his crib crying. Faker. Meanwhile, after much ice and elevation, we're still contemplating what to do about my foot. If it doesn't seem better by tomorrow, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to go to the emergency room for x-rays. It's currently a little on the numb side and I definitely don't have full range of motion.
I'm one of those people who just assumes nothing is wrong with you until something falls off. I hate the inconvenience of going to the doctor/hospital. I've never broken a bone. Let's hope this isn't the first. Hobbling around on a cast is not how I envisioned my summer!