Knock Yourself Out

Last week was one of those weeks I'd rather forget.

  

So in order to totally thwart my efforts, let me tell you about it.

  

Saturday was a day we were all eagerly awaiting. One of the young ladies in our church, Dana, is getting married; and her bridal shower was Saturday. We love any kind of shower...not for the actual event, per se, but because it means the girls get to get gussied up and go with Mama while the boys do something gross and manly with Papa (like eating grasshopper cookies at the Bug Box...and I do mean the kind of grasshopper that has had moving legs).

  

We were excited. I had determined to knit a weeks' worth of dishcloths as my present. This determination ended up costing me many more hours than I would like to admit; and we will comment no further on how angry one can get with a knitting needle or with a fourteen-month old who carries around a stray knitting needle that used to be attached to forty-something stitches.

   

But the dishcloths were knit. The gussying was planned. The grossness was accounted for.

  

And then I looked at the calendar -- and realized Ethan's week-long intensive class on ethics was going to begin on Friday and continue through all of Saturday.

  

That, combined with my children's freshly caught colds, put an end to our Saturday plans. But all was not lost. My youngest sister was spending the weekend with us, and that's the next best thing to going to Disney World, let alone a bridal shower.

  

So we pulled out the hide-a-bed couch and giggled with Aunt Becca. The children were excited and giddy.

     

And on Saturday morning, Miriam (2) ran herself straight into that hide-a-bed couch, bruised the front of her head, ricocheted onto the floor where she hit the back of her head, and knocked herself out.

  

Being the truly vigilant mother that I am, I was in the kitchen and had no idea that anything had happened until my six-year old son carried her to my sister, who carried her to me.

 

And what I saw totally unnerved me. Miriam's back was arched strangely, her eyes were rolled back in her head, and her lips were blue. She was not breathing.

  

I panicked. I hate that I panicked, but I did. I grabbed Miriam, grabbed the phone, and dialed 911. I tried to explain calmly what had happened and what our address was, and then I yelled into the phone: "PLEASE HELP ME!!!"

  

Uck. Of course they were trying to help me. What did screaming into the phone like a maniac accomplish, except to instantly snap me back into reality as I heard my own voice sounding strangely like ... well, like everyone on all those recordings of 911 calls?

     

The end of the story is reassuringly anti-climactic. Miriam starting breathing and came to as I was on the phone, the rescue squad and firemen came, I apologized profusely for having them come out (and they were perfect gentlemen and very kind to the children), and Abraham (2) announced in a loud voice, "Mama, I hurt my pants," at which point the Head Medical Guy listened to his pants with the stethoscope and assured him that, "I think they'll be OK, little buddy."

  

When I called Ethan to tell him what had happened, he filled me in on all the physiological aspects of what probably happened. One of his hobbies is watching those prize-fighting matches (I know; who can understand a man?), and he said, "Kind of makes you wonder why someone would want to get knocked out, doesn't it?"

  

Not really. It does make me wonder why someone would want to WATCH someone get knocked out, but I guess that's beside the point.

   

And Miriam is back to her sassy self. My friend Kendra asked me if I had gotten over the adrenaline rush. Adrenaline rush? I don't handle stress that way. I handle it by wanting to crawl into bed.

  

But that's a thought...an adrenaline rush might get a few things done around here...I'll think about it after I finish my nap.