Casey called to say he'd be bringing Anderson home from his cousins' house. Since this was the plan, I said, "Okay."
"Didn't my parents call you?"
"Anderson cut his eyebrow open on a scooter. Could you call your dad to see if he can take a look at it? We'll meet him over there."
It's nice to have a surgeon in the family and living next door. And lucky when our injuries coincide with my Dad (and Mom) being home between missions.
Anderson rode in the backseat of our car while Grandma Songer held his head and coached him in Lamaze breathing. Grandpa Hale confirmed that he would need stitches, and then offered to do it himself. While he gathered his supplies, Anderson lay on Grandma's couch and was comforted with sippy cups and a blanket fresh from the dryer.
Two-year-old Rosalie, who heard us talking about getting Anderson warm, attempted to put her coat over him. The pink blur moving towards Anderson's face was met with a hasty, "No, no!" and a strong-arm. She burst into tears. (And learned that no good deed goes unpunished. Wish we could try that again.)
Surgery on the kitchen table:
Anderson was very brave. The injection of the anesthetic into the wound produced some complaints but he held still anyway. When he felt his forehead go numb and learned he wouldn't feel any more pain during the operation, his big sigh and grin of relief were comical. Six stitches later, he got a candy bar and went home for dinner.
We wonder what kind of scar he will have. My dad says scars make men look more attractive. Clarissa called him "The Chosen One."
Anderson's third eye: