So, this afternoon, I was putting the baby down for his nap and checking on the preschoolers (all snuggled in their beds) and I heard my twins hollering my name. Now, this is not unusual at all for it seems that whenever I leave the room they get into a tussle. Why is this? Is it testosterone? A twin-thing? Sibling rivalry? Boredom?
As I came down the stairs, I hissed, “DON’T YELL AT ME!” because, really, it’s irritating to be yelled at when you aren’t even involved in the disagreement in the first place. And then I realized someone was hurt.
Do you know what this is? That’s right. It’s a goose egg. When I saw the goose egg on my son’s forehead, I responded with a shocked, “OH MY GOSH!” and actually pirouetted in the kitchen before peering again at his horribly swollen forehead and exclaiming again, “OH MY GOSH!” and frantically grabbing for ice.
Goose-Egg-Boy had been hassling his brother, teasing him about finishing his schoolwork for the day. (Taking notes from a book for a research paper, aka Torture.) Harassed son responded by brandishing a pencil as a sword and chasing. At some point, Harasser picked up a small chair from the preschool table in the kitchen and Harassee grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a Princess trick-or-treat bucket, which my daughter carries around like a purse.
He tossed said bucket at his brother, aiming, he said later, for his stomach, but hitting him in the forehead, between his left eyebrow and his hairline.
The resulting goose egg was the most dramatic I have ever seen, a couple of inches in diameter and an inch high. Goose-Egg-Son was on his back, crying while the Bucket Thrower stood over us weeping and demanding, “Is my brother going to die? Is my brother going to die?!” I finally had to send him from the room because he was hysterical.
While a washcloth full of ice settled on the swelling, I hurried to google “goose egg” and “head injury” and decided that unless unconsciousness and vomiting and dizziness occurred, he’d probably be fine. But, oh, that goose egg was dramatic and impressive and terrifying for a moment.
Now it’s a giant purplish-blue lump. My son avoided my husband tonight–not the Bucket Thrower, but the Goose-Egg-Boy–because he didn’t want his brother to be in trouble. I told Bucket Thrower that his father would speak to him tomorrow and he said, “Can’t I just know my punishment now?” and I said, “No,” because we firmly believe in making children squirm and stew in their own juices.
The Bucket Thrower cried much longer than the Goose-Egg-Boy and said to me, “Mom, I feel so bad. I think I’m going to throw up.” And I said nonchalantly, “Well, you are supposed to feel bad when you purposely hurt someone.”
And to think we could have just had another boring day around here.