Where, oh, where do I begin? I guess I should start with the fact that Ryan, poor boy, really takes after me. True, he's the mirror image of John at three, but personality-wise, he's me to a T. He also has my sense of, um, balance and coordination, which means he has next to none. The boy can't walk across a flat surface without tripping over his feet.
Friday afternoon we were at my mom's house and Ryan was upstairs playing with my younger brother, Zach, and some of my brother's friends. I'm downstairs nursing Bella. My little brother comes running down the stairs with Ryan in his arms calling my name, I look up and Ryan's entire face and neck are covered in blood. I'm not one to faint or get hysterical over blood, cuts, injuries, and things like that, but I just about lost it when I saw him, and my brother clearly already had lost it. Ryan, my wonderful boy, is just calm as can be, not crying or even complaining about his head hurting. Apparently, the boys had been dancing in my brother's room while my brother and his friends played Rockband. Ryan tripped over something, no telling what, and hit his head on the corner of my brother's dresser.
I put him on the counter by the sink and called my mom into the kitchen, we start cleaning all the blood off him so we can see the wound. It's a gash about an inch long right above his hairline, we had to cut and shave the hair right there so we could really look at it and clean it. We decide after cleaning it, and a brief call to the doctor, as long as he doesn't seem to have a concussion he shouldn't need to be seen because its too small a wound for stitches and that we shouldn't worry head wounds just bleed a lot, which thanks to Ryan I already knew. So he has a butterfly bandage on it and a bandaid over it.