We got back home and Sydney and I went upstairs for our bedtime routine. Get in jammies, pick out books, brush teeth, hop in bed, and turn on her night time music. All was going well and we had just finished brushing her teeth when it happened: the nightmare at our house. She was stepping off of her wooden stool that was beautifully hand-painted by someone at our church and somehow it toppled over and upside down. She landed with her face/mouth on one of the four legs. I was right there and watched it happen in slow motion helpless to do anything to stop it. I quickly scooped her up knowing it was going to be bad just no idea how bad. The cries that came out of her were cries such as I have never heard before nor do I ever want to hear them again. I was yelling for Tony to "get up here" as fast as I could because there was blood everywhere and it just kept coming. He came thundering up the stairs and took her from me to assess the situation as only daddies can do sometimes and this was definitely one of those times. He took one look at her and said she needs stitches right now. And something else I was not expecting: she needs a plastic surgeon. The wound was such that not just anyone could stitch it up. It was looked on the upper left part of her face known as the vermilion border which is the area where the lip skin meets the facial skin. He explained to me that if it was not done properly she would be permanently disfigured around her mouth because the two skin types would not heal properly. At this point the five month pregnant lady is just barely holding it together and I run to look up plastic surgeons, clearly forgetting for the moment that Tony is a surgeon with way better connections than I have. He thrusts Sydney into my arms and runs downstairs for his phone. Five minutes later he has a plastic surgeon (AKA the hero) on his way to the ER to meet us and he has arranged for a room to be made ready for our imminent arrival there. I get Sydney in the car with her DVD player and Tony brings an ice pack to place under the only washcloth I could find in Sydney's room: a white one. She is doing pretty good for now and Tony takes her into the ER while I park the car. I am unsure where they are as I enter the building until I hear my baby screaming at the top of her lungs. No one is even touching her, she is simply scared beyond endurance. The surgeon arrives, the "muscle" wraps her up like a baby burrito and the real fun begins. It takes all three of us to hold her still so the doc can numb up the wound; she is strong. It takes three stitches to close the wound and we had to fight her for each one; she is strong. We gratefully thank him and we take our little baby home to bed. As I am tucking her in and Tony is getting her some Motrin, I notice she isn't closing her mouth. I asked her why and she said it tickles. I look closer and sure enough one of the stitches is really too long and I ask Tony if he can cut it shorter. Upon his inspection, he realizes it is not just too long, it has come out!!! He calls the plastic surgeon again and explains what happened and we leave to meet him again, luckily at his office this time instead of the ER. This time there are just two of us to hold her down where before there were three. Did I mention that she is strong? This time it takes four more stitches for a grand total of seven altogether (two had actually come out.)
The moral of the story is: brushing your teeth can be hazardous to your health.