Thursday, August 4, 2011

Nothing Says Summer Like a Bat to the Head

A few Saturdays ago we were at a going away party for some family friends (hey you Spragginses – we miss you already!) when our little Brandon (affectionately known as the Incredible Kick-Ass Beezo) suffered a bit of head trauma.

This is actually Beezo BEFORE the trauma, although I can certainly understand why you’d be confused.

Having four boys, you’d think head injuries would be a common occurrence, but we have been incredibly lucky to have had very few. And now I feel a little stupid for putting that out in the universe.

Hey karma, come and get me!

Everyone, please take a moment on behalf of the Davis family to cross your fingers, knock some wood and maybe even spit some salt over your shoulder in the hopes that, barring this particular incident, our luck lasts.

Anyway, back to the party. Brandon came tearing across the yard holding his head and to be completely honest, I wasn’t too concerned at first. If I had a dime for every time a kid ran at me screaming…

Then B took his hand away and I felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the world. He had such a hideous lump on his forehead that I got a little dizzy myself. It’s a good thing I had the wherewithal to snap a picture.

Not sure where that little mouse came from, but I’m kind of irritated he looks so pleased.

It took awhile to calm Beezo down enough to find out what happened. By the time he transitioned from shrieking like a cat with his tail stuck in a door to merely howling like a banshee, we figured out that he had been hit in the head with a bat.

A whiffle ball bat.

In a million years I wouldn’t have thought that such a seemingly innocent, light plastic creation could do so much damage. You would have thought he’d been smacked with this:

Note to Beezo for future use: When standing entirely too close to one of your buddies while he’s batting, how about picking someone who sucks, rather than the baseball prodigy with a swing that could make Ted Williams cry? Just sayin’.

Note to Beezo’s friend: I know it upset you when Brandon’s head erupted faster than an Icelandic volcano, but I promise you’re still one of our family’s favorite kids. So I hope it doesn’t hurt your feelings when we refer to you from this day forward as “that kid who knocked Beezo stupid.”

A nurse at the party took one look at B’s throbbing forehead, visibly flinched, turned green and immediately ordered us to the nearest urgent care center. Someone fashioned us an icepack and off we went.

By the time we found an open urgent care center (seriously – someone could make a mint by having one open 24/7), the icepack was helping and he only looked slightly deformed:

Hmmm…Brandon looks a lot more tan in photos than in real life. Weird.

The doctor, an alarmingly large man with a Polish flag on the sleeve of his scrubs (maybe we were all hallucinating by that point?) poked at the squishy mess that used to be B’s forehead, did a few neurological tests to rule out a concussion, and turned us loose with instructions for ice, ice and more ice. He also mentioned that the blood and fluid in the lump would eventually be reabsorbed by the body.

The next day the bump had flattened out a little and Beezo was looking much better.

“MoQ taH chaH nargh!” *

* Translation: “Wiffle ball bats may be closer than they appear!”
(per the Klingon-to-English dictionary)

As you can see, his friendly nature had returned. And he was still very tan.

Throughout the week the lump flattened and widened out until Brandon was almost back to normal. But then on Wednesday a new symptom: B came home from soccer camp looking like an extra from an “Our Gang” movie.

Apparently the blood in the lump takes the path of least resistance, and gravity was pulling it into our little guy’s eyes. For the next two weeks total strangers sneered at us in public, as if we had given our little boy a double-fisted whallop.

Everybody knows that if you’re going to beat your kids, you do it where the clothes will cover. Duh.

Oh calm down, I’m kidding.

Several weeks post-trauma, Brandon is almost back to his old self and was able to celebrate his ninth birthday with little to no existing disfigurement and only an occasional impulse to forcibly board Starfleet vessels.

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