Most families do boring shit on Christmas, like happily opening presents, lounging around in jammies, eating turkey and drinking egg nogg. LAME. Not my family. We like to spend it in the emergency room.
This is the SECOND YEAR IN A ROW we've gone to the E.R. on Christmas Day. It's pretty awesome, and it could be the start of a catchy new trend. I know, you're totally jealous. But before you start hating me, let me fill you in on all the gory details.
Last year, my husband stabbed himself in the hand with a wine bottle opener. True, we'd been drinking mimosas since we woke up, and it was probably the second bottle of wine we'd cracked. (For some reason, various family members think our house is a free-for-all on Christmas Day, and they come over and booze it up. While Ian and I are very light drinkers, as hosts, we like to make wine available to those members of our family with drinking problems.)
It was an epic and bloody battle, but let's just say the wine bottle opener won. Ian staggered into the dining room with blood spurting from his hand, then promptly sat down on the floor and passed out. (Disclaimer--he didn't COMPLETELY pass out but he ALMOST passed out.)
Luckily, we live two blocks from the hospital, so we jumped into the Jeep and cruised right into E.R. The doctors laughed, stitched him up, billed us heavily, and before we knew it--we were back home.
This year, we weren't so lucky. Holland, our 19-month-old, got a balance bike for Christmas. (I know, I know, she's pretty young for a balance bike but RELAX that's not how it happened.) After many long hours of eating, opening presents, and more eating, we decided to go for a "nice family walk" by the Bay. Holland quickly tired of cruising on her balance bike and wanted to walk, while Marley rode her Disney Princess bike with training wheels. Marley asked me if she could go down the "steep hill" down the road, which she has ridden down many times with no problems. I said, "Sure!"
I got a weird feeling in my stomach, but she'd gone down this hill so many times, what could go wrong? I ran ahead to the bottom of the hill to watch for cars, and Ian walked with Holland and the rest of the family.
"It's clear Marley, go!" I yelled, and Marley sped down the hill like a bat out of hell. But she handled it like a true champion and made it to the bottom. Then, a scream rang out.
It was Holland! She had tripped over Ian's foot and face-planted into the asphalt. Ian quickly scooped her up.
"She's OK, she's OK," he yelled. I took a closer look.
"She's NOT OKAY!" I shrieked. "SHE'S MISSING HER TOOTH!"
Well, I guess that's an exaggeration, because there was a broken, bloody stump left where front tooth used to be. It looked terrible. It looked painful. It looked like MY BABY KNOCKED OUT HER FRONT TOOTH HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
"Weren't you holding her hand?" I asked, which is apparently the WRONG THING to say to the person who was supposed to be watching the baby when she fell and knocked out a tooth. A family fight promptly ensued.
So we all jumped in the Jeep and drove to the emergency room on Christmas. Again.
24 hours later, after one trip to the E.R., one trip to the dentist, one traumatizing tooth extraction, three doses of antibiotics and two doses of Tyelnol with codeine, my baby was happily toddling around like nothing had happened, sans a front tooth.
As the dentist pointed out, it could have been worse. She could have broken her nose, or part of her jaw. She could have had a concussion.
Now she's my little Toothless Wonder. I like to think it gives her character. And her smile still lights up a room, gap-toothed and all.
So when people ask me, "How was your Christmas?" I like to think I have the better story.