Hard Headed

I've always said my kids are hard-headed. But this past week, both boys decided to prove me right. (Not that I needed proof.)

We've been visiting another church on and off a few times this summer, wondering if God would have us change where we attend. The kids have been resistant, because who at that age is okay with change?

Clay has probably been the most at ease, because he knows a bunch of kids from school who attend at the church we've been visiting. Spencer has been okay, because he's Spencer and can conquer the world. He has fussed a little, but nothing major.

Allison has cried twice when we've dropped her off for Sunday school... even though one of her school buddies is in class with her. And so is Spencer, for that matter. Of all the places I've dropped these children off (Sunday school, Awanas, VBS, BSF, kindergarten), she has never been a crier.

Still, that's how last Sunday started off. It was emotionally draining for me. We told the kids they could all go with us to "big church" instead of staying in children's church, and then we pulled Allison's clutched hands away from my waist and left her in her Sunday school class, bawling.

Once church time rolled around, we sat at the end of a row near the back. Spencer was in the very last seat, and he had a major case of the wiggles. The sanctuary was cold, too. So Spencer curled into a ball with his knees under his chin, feet on the chair. Then he pulled his shirt over his knees and tucked his arms in as well.

Within minutes, his wiggles resumed and he somehow rolled right out of his seat onto the floor. (Because, while Spongebob may have a square butt, my children do not.) Spencer smacked his forehead pretty solidly on the ground when he landed.

My memory at this point is all in slow motion. I looked down and realized Spencer's face was scrunched up, his mouth was open after sucking air in and he was getting ready to let all that air out in a giant wail. In the middle of the preacher's sermon about opposition happening when you are trying to do what the Lord leads you to do. Yes, preacher. Do tell.

While I pulled in a deep breath to control my frustration (I had just told Spencer to put his feet down off the chair and to sit still), I realized Spencer's mouth was full of blood.

That's when slow motion ended. I glanced at Bruce to make sure he saw the blood, and then I untangled Spencer from his shirt straitjacket and picked him up to carry him out of the church.

Two good things to note here. When Spencer gets ready to really wail, he loses his breath and takes forever to finally let it back out, so the shrieking began in earnest only once I was actually safely in the bathroom. And, despite all the blood in his mouth, my white shirt stayed white. Proof that God covers even the littlest details of our lives.

One more nice thing. Really nice, actually. Two different people, strangers from this new church, followed us and checked to make sure Spencer was okay.

He had bit his tongue. Big time.

Have you ever tried to hold a paper towel firmly to a crying child's tongue to stop bleeding? It takes awhile to work!

If I'd had my purse with me, I would have taken Spencer to the van and waited there for the rest of the family. Instead, I carried my boy with his rug-burned, pump-knotted forehead back into the sanctuary for the rest of the sermon.

On the drive home, Bruce asked the kids what they learned in Sunday school. Clay said something about Paul's missionary journeys. Allison mentioned David and Goliath.

And Spencer piped up and said, "I learned that you don't sit with your knees tucked under your shirt and your feet on the chair in church."

Last night was like Part II of a bad movie, just with a new star.

We went, first, to the school’s open house and found out who the kids’ teachers would be this year. Afterwards we went to the Moody’s house so that Roy and Bruce could load up Bruce’s truck with stuff to take to Cookeville. Brandon and Brandi bought a house there and are moving in today. Bruce and Roy left early this morning and picked up Bryan in Knoxville, so all the men are helping with the move.

There was a ladder flat on the ground in the front of the Moody’s yard and some furniture still waiting to be loaded. The kids were running around, playing with the Moody's German shepherd Rex and watching Bruce and Roy load up.

Then Clay walked backwards, tripped over the ladder and fell down and knocked his head against the corner of an oak nightstand. He instantly grabbed his head and started crying.

Sharon and I took him in the house to sit down because he said he was dizzy and it was cooler in the house. I told him to point to where it hurt on his head and I pulled his hair back… and noticed some blood. I didn’t think it was much, but by the time I parted all his hair, I found a pretty yucky gash. It was maybe an inch wide and probably a quarter of an inch deep. It looked like raw steak. I’m not used to seeing the inside of my kids' flesh. It never did gush blood though.

I went outside to get Bruce and he and Roy took a look at the gash. Up to that point, I had purposely never said the word "stitches". First, so Clay wouldn't hear it, but also so Spencer and Allison wouldn't and then repeat it to Clay. But Bruce saw the cut and said the magic word. Clay started his freak out session.

We were all pretty much thinking Clay was going to need a few stitches. But Sharon suggested I walk to her backyard neighbor and let him take a look. He’s some kind of medical professional. He took a look at Clay’s head and said if it was anywhere but in his hair, he would say take him in for stitches. But he suggested instead to take him home and then pull the edges of the wound together by pulling hair from each side and tying it in a knot over the top of the wound.

When we got home, I had Clay take a shower and wash his hair. There was blood caked all around the cut. Then I tried to knot his hair, but his hair is too silky and fine. It wouldn’t stay knotted.

I kept looking at that wound and thinking, “This really needs to be stitched.” But if I mentioned going to the hospital, Clay went nuts. He was shaking and crying so hard.

Finally, I got my scissors out and cut a big section of hair off, then took our hair trimmer and shaved part of his head around the wound. We had some butterfly bandages in our first aid kit in the camper, so Bruce brought them in and I basically pushed the wound edges together and taped them shut with the butterfly bandage. And then I put antibiotic ointment on the part of the wound that wasn’t covered by the butterfly and put a bandaid over top of that so nothing would get on the wound and it would stay clean. And so it wouldn’t bleed all over the pillow while Clay slept.

Poor kid. When we were done, he gave me a huge hug and said, “Thank you for not taking me to the hospital.”

It was a pretty traumatic evening for us both!

I'm praying it'll heal quickly without any infection. In the meantime, I’m treating him like a baby for a few days.

He had just decided to quit football on Thursday. It’s a good thing, too, because I probably wouldn’t let him play for a few more practices now anyway.

Now here's the part that just shows how warped our family is. When the whole thing started at the Moody's house, Spencer ran and found Roy’s camera to take a picture while Clay's wound was still open and oozing. We didn't take a picture though. I don't want to see that ever again.

Please, God, let us avoid stitches a whole lot longer! Forever would be nice.

Right about now I am thinking that perhaps Clay wanting his hair long was a good thing. Because most of that shag now hides his bald spot.