Henry whacked himself on the forehead today. He was sitting in front of me–I was supposed to be spotting him–irresistably attracted to one of the wheels on his dad’s Aeron chair. I had just gotten through saying to Brad something like “We ought to supervise him a bit more closely now that he’s becoming more mobile.” And I watched fascinated, proud of his skills and curiosity, as he reached, reached, reached out for the Aeron chair and then lunged forward… There was a sickening, heart stopping, earth shaking, glass shattering thud (I was hearing with a mom’s ears, I guess) as his forehead met the leg of the chair. He started crying a bit and I sat there sort of stunned with anxiety as Brad scooped him up and held him. Then came the big cry, the one he only uses when he is hurting bad, the one where he starts to cry and then doesn’t make a sound and doesn’t seem to breathe for seconds, minutes, eons and then finally breathes in and finishes with a agonized wail.
Now, ten minutes later, he’s gurgling and raspberrying and laughing his breathy little laugh in his exersaucer, oblivious to the welt on his forehead. I’ve thus far resisted the urge to look up “concussion” in the baby care books.