... for pain.
After sending Leanna to school yesterday with what we thought were 12yo molars but turned out to be a screaming ear infection, I felt bad enough. I mean, everyone here and at work and even the school nurse said they understood that I had thought it was something pretty minor, if painful, but still...
So Sunday Abby had hurt her hand - one of those scrapes that tears a trapdoor, a little flap in the skin, under which crud - in this case dirt - gathers. Those hurt, especially in places like the palm of the hand. And as Abby and Leanna - in spite of no genetic connection - have equally low pain thresholds, I pretty much took the whimpering as normal as I cleaned and disinfected and bandaged. Gave them both ibuprofen or acetaminophen before bed Sunday night.
We know how well that worked out for Leanna.
But it seemed to work fine for Abby; Band-aid on and she's okay. Until she trips and falls again - must be a growth spurt - and does the same exact thing in the same exact place on her hand, this time with the added bonus of splinters from beauty bark. Inside the wound.
It's interesting that - even as I'm holding her wrist hard enough to bruise in order to keep her still over the sink as I fish around with tweezers and then pour peroxide over the open wound - my language does not deteriorate. I didn't even drop an F-bomb, although Google knows I wanted to just scream all seven of the words you can't say. Because my baby was hurting, and I was helping to cause it. I'm sure my ex-husband would be proud of me for not swearing like a sailor while washing dirt and beauty bark out of an open wound (he knows I'm both foul-mouthed, and squeamish about such things).
And now it's neatly bandaged, and I feel like the Good Mom again. After writing it all out, in any case. This sort of thing - along with the pictures of veterinary surgeries I've been perusing at work - is why I am not a doctor of any kind.