“Hi, this is [redacted] from [also redacted], Owen’s daycare.”
“Yes?” (Feeling nervous now)
“We wanted to let you know that Owen had an accident, but everything is all right.”
“What happened?” (Feeling more nervous now)
“Owen fell and cut his head pretty badly.”
“Is he OK?” (Freaking out a little)
“He’s fine. The paramedics are here now and they’re seeing if he needs stitches or not.”
“Is he conscious?” (Freaking out)
“He’s laughing and smiling now. They don’t think he’ll need stitches.”
“I’ll be right there. Don’t let him fall asleep!” (Freaking the fuck out)
While I may have taken some liberties with the dialogue, there’s more truth to this story than the average Mike Daisey monologue.
What really shouldn’t surprise – being the father of four and being a recipient of two concussions myself – is just how small the injury is relative to the blood it was said to have generated.
Photographic evidence that makes everyone, especially me, breath a sigh of relief.
The funny thing is no one, not even Owen himself, could give me a very specific account of exactly how the injury occurred. One minute he’s riding a trike outside, the next he’s on the ground, bleeding and clutching his head.
Reports of a collision, a prat fall and sudden stop all seem to contradict one another, but maybe I’m not imaging the creative destructive capacity of your average Pre-K boy.
The worst part of the whole ordeal? Washing the boy’s hair in the shower. Nothing says “awesome Tuesday night” quite like shampooing a flesh wound.
Better luck tomorrow, I suppose.