Every morning for the last three weeks, my daughter has insisted that I paint her fingernails to match the color of her outfit. Her latest fashion request includes at least two colors and some polka dots on at least one finger or toe. When time is an issue, I deny the request, but on most mornings and as small as her fingernails are, it’s easier to just paint the nails. This is funny because I can’t remember the last time I painted my own nails. I mean what’s the point? By the time I made bottles, washed dishes, prepared meals and bathed my children, even the best polish would be chipped and then I would complain about not having time to sit and remove it.
But my 3-year-old absolutely loves nail polish and I could kick whichever loved one felt the need to indulge her hobby that demands so much of my time. Last Tuesday, she wore blue and her nail polish was blue and pink. I dropped her off at my mom’s and she was excited about her weekly afternoon jaunt to a children’s gym filled with jumpies and slides. A little before 4 p.m., her scheduled pick up time, I get a call from my husband asking about our pediatricians office and an updated insurance card because she’d had an accident and her fingers were hurt.
During the conversation he relays that her fingers got stuck in the bathroom door and I hear her screaming to the top of her lungs in the background. So, I’m not panicking because he’s with her and the doctor’s office in less than a half mile away. I meet them at the doctor’s office and she’s quiet in the waiting room until she see’s me and then the she starts boo hooing not about her fingers, not about the blood gushing through the homemade bandage, but about what? Yes, you guessed it, her nails.
After the nurse calls us back and asks the standard questions about what happened, the pharmacy we use, her weight, blah, blah, blah, we’re escorted to a room to wait for the doctor and I finally get to ask her what happened. In between tears, she says “I was coming out of the bathroom and a boy pushed the door on my fingers.” So I ask, was it on purpose or an accident. She emphatically says “on purpose.” Just then the doctor walks in and I finally get to see my poor baby’s fingers.
No broken bones, but she has lost not one, but two complete nails and her skin is completely exposed. I cringe just looking at it. I feel so sorry for her and all she keeps talking about is her nails. So of course the visual has caused me to get a little warm. I mean where was the supervision? Was there an incident report? Was the boy reprimanded? Did he at least apologize? Why didn’t they call me? And the list goes on. It’s official. I’m pissed.
On the way home, I told her I was glad she was okay but I was a little upset and felt like I needed to stop by the place of her injury and let them know I was angry. Her response was “mommy please don’t do that.” I then asked her to tell me what I can do then and this was her reply, “you can write about it and tell all the mommies that read it not to fight when kids get hurt. It’s okay to be upset and they can call somebody, but don’t fight.”
So according to Morgan us mommies need to chill out when our children are injured and refrain from taking out an old fashioned can of whip ass on the responsible adults. Ding, ding, ding, she nailed it. How noble of her to say so, but until I reach the same conclusion, her days at that particular venue are over.