Blood in the water

This late summer has been filled with the color red for me. I think it began with hosting the Red Tent Event and my filling my living room with the warm color. When the day was through, I was quite attached to the decorative change and kept the red pillows and chair coverings, vowing to repaint the walls as well. And then, during my month of hormonal changes I spontaneously dyed my hair red, something I hadn't done since before my pregnancy with my first child. I used a cautious strawberry blond but am now ready to go much darker. I wasn't, but truly was, aware that my body was building up a supply of menstrual blood to be released early last week, the first release in 27 months. Now that I'm using cloth mama pads as opposed to the disposable ones of the past, I see vibrant red every trip to the bathroom. I rinse these pads in cold water so the stain doesn't set and am impressed at the COLOR of life. Throw away pads don't give a woman this thrill since the color is dull on the dry weave and is just tossed in the trash, something to be disgusted by and forgotten. Seeing the rinse water change from clear to orange every time reminds me of using dyes as a fabric artist and also that I haven't dyed in a long time. Sunday the color of life was thrown in my face once again when I heard my oldest fall and cry out from another room. I was in the kitchen doing some type of kitchen activity and appreciating the silence coming from the living room as my children shared a snack together at the coffee table. Both children sat in a child-sized wooden chair each that my sister and I used when we were young. When I ran to the room I saw that the girl was still in hers but that the boy had tipped his over and he was laying on his back beside the fireplace. He came into my arms and I felt the blood dripping from the back of his head onto my hands. I noticed his shirt was soaked deep red as I lifted him into my arms and scrambled to the kitchen for a clean washcloth. I applied pressure to his skull and tried to focus on, on everything. His crying, his blood, his little sister still needing a parent, too. I told him I'd get some ice and the girl said "Ice, ice, ice mommy" My mother called at the moment and I flipped my cell phone on and said between the sounds that it wasn't the best time to talk. I hung up the phone and then called my husband's phone, only to leave a message. I then sent him a text one handed that read "Come home now". Amidst the chaos I remained cheery for the children and retrieved ice for them both to suck on before blowing up a surgical glove like a balloon, something I had read in a parenting book as a trick to keep things light. The boy's bleeding halted and I was able to see the gash underneath his bloodied brown hair. It was bad, but not too bad, but then again, maybe it was terrible and I was underestimating the damage...I was wishing I had a second opinion and my husband wasn't playing racquetball. As I rinsed the washcloth out in the sink, I saw the rusted orange color of LIFE, this time from my precious boy. Blood from an injury, a lot more than should come from a child, a lot more than comes from my mama pads. After finishing his ice, the boy seemingly perked up, asked if we could toss the new balloon around and I suggested we sit and watch a movie instead. My husband came home during 101 Dalmations and I felt shaken and protective. I said I was planning to surprise the kids with a trip to the park but that the boy's injury erased those thoughts. My husband, seeing our son happily eating, talking and watching a show felt the opposite. He hadn't witnessed the incident so he thought I was overreacting. After the show, I convinced the boy to take a bath. As I gently poured water on his hair the dried blood fell away and his bathwater turned orange. I tried to cut away his hair at the site of injury but the boy was resistant which made me tense. With a strained voice I yelled for his daddy to take over- the boy will let him do certain things over me any day. Once his cut was truly revealed we could see the damage: an inch long and gaping. We discussed the severity, our options, our indecision...it was Sunday after all so should we go to the emergency room or try to dress the wound ourselves? I was for the ER and my husband was for the latter, really leaving me to the big decision. I quickly packed our things and off we went. As we walked inside the building a helicopter was navigating the roof, a big thrill for a 4 year old. Inside we had our pockets and diaper bag searched by a policewoman and we were eyed by an officer on a Segway. We were there for a total of four hours. Four hours. The first two were spent in the large waiting area. We kept the children entertained enough...When a doctor came through two double doors and called the boy's number, 521, we cheered and proceeded to walk through the doors. I was told the girl was too young to go to the emergency area because of germs and I'd have to stay in the waiting area with her. The logic made sense, especially sense the girl isn't vaccinated, but that hurt me as a mother. I sadly communicated to my husband that he'd be with our son and I'd stay behind. That's when the other two hours of waiting kicked in. I nursed the girl twice and she briefly napped in my arms while I watched a Matthew Mcconaughey movie on one of the many television screens. My husband thankfully emerged when I thought I couldn't possibly stand pacing amongst strangers any longer and we drove home, my boy having gotten three staples in his head.
Last night my week of womanly bleeding came to an end and I look forward to the next one. This first cycle was interesting; long, painless, moody and just something different. But it was a natural occurence, a positive statement for me about fertility returning and where I am in life. My son's accident and the blood that fell from his body was something I could've done without. When something happens to one's child, who is it harder on...the parent or the child?