Rite of passage

Yesterday, Jon received his first set of stitches.  Technically, these aren't his first set, but given that the only stitches he has received prior hereto were administered under general anesthesia when his two front teeth were pulled, this set qualifies as the official "first set."  I've got a feeling that these certainly will not be the last.

And how, you ask?  I'm not even exactly certain.  We were sitting out in the backyard.  I was at the picnic table looking over some paperwork.  Jon was flittering about, getting dirty, having fun, and being his usual rambunctious self.  He went to climb up onto the arm of my chair, which is one of those metal types from your standard 1980s patio set.  The corners are rounded, but somehow he slipped and hit his mouth on one of the arms and busted his lip open.  It was the cleanest laceration I'd ever seen, almost as if it was sliced by an X-Acto knife or something like it.  So he's crying, bleeding profusely (why oh why does the mouth bleed so?).  So I rush him inside to assess the damage and stop the bleeding. 

Once I had the blood under control, I called our pediatrician to see if they could take a look to tell if it required stitches or not.  Their next available appointment was in 15 minutes, so I took it.  Meanwhile, I'm on my cell phone in my other ear telling Shawn the details and that I needed him home ASAP.  I'm trying desperately not to freak out at the sight of his gaping hole in his lip, and I think I did pretty well under the circumstances.  Jon calmed down pretty quickly -- even tried to eat pretzels with his busted lip while I was on the phone with the nurse.

I arranged to have our neighbor get Katie off the bus and we headed around to the pediatrician's office (thank you, Ti Ti-- and Aunt Joyce!).  Unfortunately, he did need stitches, and, of course, they do not do stitches in the office.  Off we went to the emergency room. 

Five very long hours later, he got two stitches in his lip.  He did okay for the most part -- even did not mind their restraining him like a burrito in a large sheet, but when they poked him with the needle the first two times, he screamed bloody murder and cried.  Poor guy.  Thankfully, the doctor worked fast and he was stitched up and ready to go home.

So, here we have it down in the record books...3.25 years old, first set of stitches.  Welcome to boyhood, little man.