Ouch.

You parents out there know that most of the first couple of years of having a baby basically involves waiting for them to have all their baby "firsts."  The first time they hold their head up, first time they roll over, first time they pee on you, first time they sleep through the night...just imagine any activity you could possibly perform throughout the day, except maybe blinking and breathing, and there's probably some mom out there who noted the first time their baby did that activity in the baby book (or the baby blog). 

As a parent, you're usually eagerly anticipating all of these firsts--in my case, mostly because I was shamed into thinking they should happen earlier than they did because of the silly questionnaires I had to fill out at every doctor's appointment.  But a "first" that every parent knows is inevitable but that they are definitely not eagerly anticipating: baby's first trip to the emergency room!  yay! 

Look, Joe is almost 2 years old.  That's 24 months.  John and I used to joke that we felt like we were successful parents if we didn't have to make a trip to the ER before he was 18 months old.  So, by my math, we are officially successful parents.  Unfortunately, I definitely did not factor in myself being the cause of the accident that sent us there.  One thing about being a mom (as opposed to a dad, nanny, grandma, or other non-mom caregiver) is that you think you do everything related to your kid right, and everyone else could really benefit by just watching what you do a little closer, cause you are just so awesome.  I mean, I'm not saying this isn't still true for 99.99% of things out there, cause again, I'm just super awesome at momming.  But I guess causing your kid an injury that requires an ER trip means you've officially lost the argument that you do literally everything better.

So here's the sitch.  Joe likes to watch morning cartoons after he wakes up but before Lindsay gets here.  Ian likes to lie down on his back and look up at me super cutely after he wakes up but before Lindsay gets here.  I need to get my hair straightened for work (otherwise I'd bear an eerily resemblance to a young Albert Einstein) after the kids wake up but before Lindsay gets here.  The only way these three things can get done efficiently and with the least amount of tantrums, fussing, and tears: all of us perform these various activities on the bed together.  Unfortunately for all, and especially Joe, Yo Gabba Gabba (last Thursday morning's cartoon) has a "dancey dance" segment that he likes to imitate -- which involves, you guessed it, twirling, jumping, dancing, and bouncing all around on the bed.  So I set the straightener down for .0234187284 milliseconds to stick the binky back in Ian's mouth, and in that teeny weeny timeframe, of course, Joe manages to fall down directly onto the 450 degree Chi.  Yikes.

Full-on family panic ensues.  I yell, John runs in from the bathroom, and Ian starts crying--basically, chaos.   But Joe didn't do anything more than make a tiny frowny face of displeasure, and grunt at us for getting in the way of the TV.  This lack of reaction worried me and John more than anything else, because we both know that burns hurt.  So why wasn't he acting like it hurt?  Of course, Google confirmed our fears (because Google can confirm any fear, as long as you use it right), and we read that third degree burns have associated nerve damage that would make the burnee not feel any pain at first.  And we read that both second and third degree burns require immediate medical attention.  So we headed to the hospital. 

The rest is uneventful.  Burn was second degree, so no permanent damage done (other than a super awesome and manly scar).  We were out of the hospital within the hour, and Joe was all bandaged up and given the stamp of approval to do whatever he felt like doing at home.  Since then, Joe has not acted in any way like the burn was causing him trouble.  Mostly he just likes to play with the bandage and hold his arm out to people who ask what happened.  And we learned two new words out of it: "burn" and "boo boo."  Success?

He's only crying here because he was afraid of the machine the registration lady brought in to check us out.  Seriously.

So, all in all, no big deal.  But a few takeaways:

1.  Not all minor injury emergency room trips are created equal.  I totally expected having to run him to the hospital because he banged his head on the cement and needed a few stitches, or he jumped off the couch and broke his collarbone.  I did not expect to take him to the emergency room for a second degree burn injury.  Does the type of injury really matter?  Probably not.  But for whatever reason, the "burn" part of this was hard for me.  To me, stitches and broken bones are a normal part of childhood.  Burns are not.  To me, burns come from totally avoidable neglectful parenting, not unavoidable crazy kid stuff.

2.  Burns actually are a normal part of childhood.  I realize I just said the exact opposite.  But the other day I heard so many stories of people getting burned accidentally as kids, or people's siblings getting burned, or people's cousins getting burned, that I guess it's just something that happens.  You all know that toddlers get into everything.  It's really hard to be 100% hyper vigilant all day every day.  That doesn't make those random neglectful moments okay, I guess, but it makes the few times where things do go wrong seem more accidental than negligent (boom, lawyered).

3.  Other parents are very helpful people to have around when you've been a part of some less-than-stellar parenting experience.  I can truthfully say that every single parent I talked to first asked if Joe was okay, and when it was clear that he was fine, they immediately asked me how I was holding up.  Every single one.  Lindsay, my work neighbors, my family members - everyone.  This was, for some reason, unreasonably touching to me.  Maybe because I was beating myself up for letting him get hurt.  But if any of you are reading this, thank you, truly, for asking.

Joe's burn is fine, and I am fine too.  Don't worry, I'm not beating myself up as much as this post seems like I am.  I just wish I hadn't been the cause of my baby's first major injury.  Sorry, Future Joe!