The Patchwork Boy

Well, he was at it once again. Having freak accidents. He was playing on the wooden rocking animals (meant for the three year olds) at school and he flew. And hit the concrete floor with a thud. He was bleeding, but he couldnt notice. Mom, I dont have eyes on my back, do I? The security guard spots the blood, does some rudimentary cleaning. Uncle also applied some yellow powder on it.

Then it was lunch time. Lunch was yummy. It hurt a little bit, but I was okay. Then as the teacher plodded through some social science, the kids behind him told the teacher of the renewed blood flow. The teacher knew it was more than what the yellow powder could handle.

Off they rush to the hospital in the school bus. It was the nursery dismissal time. It was fun to be on the bus with all the kutti paapas. The doc ordered two stitches on the head. He asked me to lie down and silly goosily, I lay on my back and it REALLY hurt. Then an injection and ibugesic.

And by the time the school called and I reached, he was standing at the top of the steps, beaming a twenty toother at me.

Yes, I do adore his spirit to brave it all. But it is just five months since he fractured his right hand middle finger, when he pushed a desk on it. The nail had barely started to grow back. I am certain no forensic expert can reconstruct that accident. And countless more before that.

Each time something like this happens, I just say to myself, thank god its this and not anything much worse.