July 10, 2012

Sunday Night Crazy

I continue to marvel at the never-ending, low-level of crazy that permeates my daily life nowadays. Gone are the days of big drama that made up my pre-marriage-and-kids life. Those days were filled with dating drama and trauma (Will he call??? Is he really interested???...Now I'm pretty sure he will and he is.), late-night bar-hopping and crazy antics with friends, lunatic travel schedules and long, stress-filled work days. Not anymore. I don't typically have the stress-level spikes I once had. What I have instead is a constant, easy-flowing stream of chaos. Like my life has become a babbling brook...lots of little ripples, no major water falls. Which is good. Except that I often don't get a break from the constant crazy. Sunday night is a fabulous example.

After a wonderful weekend at my brother and sister-in-law's place in Indianapolis, we arrived home late in the afternoon Sunday. We unpacked the car, picked up the dog from the Pooch Palace, then I bustled around unpacking and settling us back in before dinner and bedtime. Neither of the kids had slept well while we were gone, so both were exhausted and went down relatively easily and even a little early. Which was great. Until about 9pm, when Holden started fussing. We let him go for a while, since he was back in his own bed in his own room, not wanting to encourage bad habits. But after three rounds of cry-fall back asleep, cry-fall back asleep, cry, we decided it might be teething pain that's been bothering him the last few days and got out the baby Advil.

I went in to pick him up and soothe him while Rolland got the goods and came in to dose him. It was a bit of a challenge to settle him down and get the medicine into him, but we finally managed it. Rolland had work to do, so I sacrificed the last fifteen minutes of the show I had been watching and settled into the chair in Holden's room to give the Advil a chance to work and get him back to sleep.

About five minutes later I hear a loud crash, followed by a series of thundering bangs and then a big thud. Something just went crashing down the stairs!

I jump from the chair-- Holden starts crying again, either from the loud noises or my reaction, not sure which-- and run from the room. I round the corner to the stairs and this is what my eyes take in: The heavy, wooden banister is pulled from the wall and laying across the stairs and Rolland is laying facedown at the bottom of the stairs.

Enter: panic.

While clutching Holden to my chest I rush down the stairs quietly calling to Rolland, "Are you okay? Are you okay?....Oh my God, Rolland, are you okay?" I am trying to maintain composure and not further upset Holden or wake Portia if she hasn't already woken from the crashing, and my mind is already racing forward...how do I get him to and ER and cover the sleeping kids?

Rolland lays on the floor with his eyes closed, head turned to the side, and quietly sighs, "I'm okay."

I am now crouched down on the floor by him. "Are you sure? Are you sure you're okay? Oh my God, Rolland, what happened?" I say, softly.

As he slowly rolls over and sits up, Rolland explains to me that after cleaning up the medicine stuff in the bathroom he headed downstairs, lost his footing about three stairs in, grabbed the banister to steady himself, snapped the metal brace, slammed into the stairs on his back, whacked his head on the then-fallen banister, and careened down the remaining stairs and into the wall at the bottom.

Oh.

Shit.

So we get him up, get him ice packs for his head and back and get him to the couch. After multiple assurances from him that he is, in fact, okay, I take Holden back upstairs. We settle back into the chair in his darken room only to hear the loud pops of fireworks outside...followed closely by low whining outside the bedroom door...and a moment later, more firework pops and slightly louder whining and thumping, as the dog attempts to break-in to Holden's room.

Yeah, Cooper's afraid of fireworks.

So, I get up once again to let the dog in to lay on my feet while I rock Holden. Once we are settled back into peace and quiet, I can't help but think that Portia will wake up screaming from a bad dream in the next minute or two.

Thankfully, she does not. Awesome girl that she is, she sleeps through the night and doesn't learn of its events until the following morning.

At 10:30pm, I finally lay a soundly-sleeping Holden in his crib and quietly usher Cooper from his room, holding his collar so he doesn't wake the baby with one of those crazy dog-head-shake-collar-jingle things that he always does at the most inopportune times. I then head CAREFULLY downstairs to check on the patient. I do a full assessment of his head and back and we decide he will be sore and bruised, but otherwise fine. Thankfully. We then check out the banister damage-- a ding in the wall and the need for new braces (one is snapped and the other bent), close-up shop, and head back upstairs for bed.

Where I sleep soundly until 5am when Holden starts fussing again. Ugh.

Babble, babble, babble. Ripple, ripple, ripple. Chaos, chaos, chaos. Crazy, crazy, crazy. Such is my life. Crazy and wonderful.

And at least I know he'll call.

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