Plans are like rules...they're made to break. Or change, or, well, okay nevermind. Bad analogy.
Anyway, yesterday I was full of plans. Plans to clean, to launder, to pack, to watch baseball, to have had a blog post written...nada. Nunya.
Different plans evolved...a friend stopped by for coffee (much more fun than cleaning), I photographed our Godchild for her 1 year photos (waaaaaay more fun that laundering), I didn't pack until 11:45 pm, the blog post never happened, and baseball?
Well...yeah. I did watch some...and then it got so cold I thought my butt was gonna freeze off (wait...maybe I shoulda waited just a bit longer...I could stand to lose a bit of butt...) so we decided to watch from the van. We were *this close* to leaving, but decided we'd wait just a bit longer because the Pal was going to be up next to bat.
Figured we'd watch him, then take off. Well, due to children being scolded (something about kids being cooped up in vans that doesn't bode well for anyone involved) I missed a crucial "play at the plate" (for those of you who are new 'round these parts, my 16 year old is the catcher on his baseball team). Next thing I new, another mom was running toward our van.
"Hmmmm" I thought, "that's weird. Why is Sue running toward us? She must have something important to ask me."
"Coach thinks you need to bring the Pal in." she said. Not quite what I was expecting to hear.
"Huh? Wha? Why? What happened? What's going on? Are you my mother? Who am I?" I responded while leaping out of the van.
As I was rushing toward the dugout, she briefly filled me in..."I dunno. He cut his hand or something?"
Weird. And I thought we were playing baseball, not Iron Chef.
Upon entering the dugout, I see a fairly freaked out 16 year old man child on the verge of tears holding a bloody ice pack with blood on his pants, some dude's jacket, all over the dugout floor, and on his gear (which we realized when the "back up" catcher said, "Man, there's blood all over his gear"...as he was wiping blood off his hands...).
We quickly gathered up he necessities, barked at Gramp (sorry Gramp) to drive the Pal's car home and headed in to the clinic (thank goodness for After Hour Care). And, once again, saw our plans for the day change *just like that*.
Well, I'm happy to report that it wasn't as bad as we initially thought (no tendons visible and/or injured) but it was gah-RODY!! I know that I like to see these sorts of things...so, I'll share it with you. Be prepared, if you don't like to see blood or wounds, scroll down!
Here it is:
When we finally got a good look at it, I saw that the skin was "tucked in"...the other dude's cleat pushed it right in! GAH!!
While we were waiting for him to soak/numb up and the Nurse Practitioner to come back in, we started making bets on how many stitches he'd get...Gramp (he stayed with us) said 5, I said 7, Pal said 9.
Guess who won? Lesson in life, never bet against a nurse when it comes to stitches. (Same could be said for a well seasoned mom who's done the stitches route a few too many times...factor in that same mom being a nurse and fuhgeddaboudit...)
He hadn't so much as stood up before he was bolting out the door and talking on his phone. Leaving his mom (and grandpa) in the dust.
And yes, for those of you who are wondering ('cuz it was one of the first questions I asked) the other guy was OUT!
Way to make the play, Pal.