This morning, just after posting my Christmas cookie status, I got a call that threatened to stop my heart. The call that every parent dreads. There's been an accident, the ambulance is on the way. Blood, ooze, crying baby.


I swear I flew out of the house - if it hadn't been for every red light along the way (my guardian angel trying to keep up?) I probably would have hit 100 m.p.h. getting to the school to be able to be in the emergency van as it pulled away. Despite keeping to a more legal (and safe) speed limit, I did make it and was able to accompany my little boy to Martha Jefferson Hospital. By the time we got there, he was feeling more alert and, helped along by the little stuffed dog the rescue crew gave him, started talking a bit and regained some color, losing the palid gray that frightened me terribly during the ride.


The upshot: a switch of hospitals (to the UVA Medical Center which has a pediatric ER), three staples, three nurses, two triage desks, four nursing students, two residents, one pediatric supervising surgeon, and eight hours later, my boy is home and resting comfortably. I am one wound up, tired, wired, slightly scarred mama.


But my baby will be fine. Thank God.