I don’t dig it

There were four in the bed (yes, FOUR- Simon, Bennett, Cora Jane and I) and the little one said, "roll over, roll over!" So they all rolled over and one fell out.

Literally.

There were four in the bed and the little one said, "roll over!" So they all rolled over and one fell out. Literally.

I spared you a close up picture of Bennett's split-wide-open-nasty chin. You're welcome. Of course, this little incident happened at 3:00 in the morning while we were in Great Bend over Labor Day weekend. He couldn't be bothered to fall out of his own bed in Lawrence. He waited until we were half way across the state, without Daddy, and smack dab in the middle of the night.

Thanks, dude.

At first I couldn't figure out why Bennett was all wet and screaming. You know, other than the fact that he had fallen out of the bed. And then Simon pointed out that he was bleeding. Everywhere. So we jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. My sister got up to help and Grandma came out too. Cora even spent a few minutes assessing the situation with us. After a few hugs and much discussion (and a quick call to Daddy), we decided to clean him up ourselves, put a butterfly band-aid on him, and call it good for the night.

The next morning, we went to Urgent Care only to learn that too much time had passed. If you want stitches, it is best to come immediately. Going back to bed isn't the best choice. Chicks dig scars, yes?

Lessons learned:
1.) When the little one says roll over, it's best not to listen.

2.) Even better- four in the bed is three too many.

 

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