I was first introduced to the world of Goose Eggs when Maddie was 2. She was running on the couch and tripped. Her forehead met the corner of the windowsill, like hard. Dude. Her forehead just popped right out. I proceeded to freak out. I was yelling at Darren to call 911, my poor baby had cracked her scull open and this is obviously what a brain bleed looks like. More screaming at Darren ‘This is not a drill, call 911’.
I’m sure in Darren’s version of this story I was calling him all the sweet terms of endearment in my vocabulary, but I will deny it.
Darren casually walked over and snorted.
Fuming people, I.AM.FUMING. Why the frickin’ frick isn’t Flight for Life already here?!?!
‘Sarah, it’s just a Goose Egg’
A what? I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing. Shut it Schroeder, I’ll call 911 myself.
I’m not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that this was my first encounter with this term.
The sweet man was able to talk me out of calling 911 and compromised with a road trip over to the after-hours clinic. Of course it was after hours, I’ve learned that any Schroeder in need of medical attention will happen ‘after hours’. We get sick on weekend and after 5pm. It’s like our thing.
The lady that was manning the triage station at the after-hours clinic giggled at my panicky tone. It’s funny now, but this first time mom, complete rookie – only 2 years in, I didn’t think it was quite as funny. She also used this foreign term of ‘goose egg’. Enter more terms of endearment now for this woman that is in cahoots with my husband. I was convinced Darren had paid the poor woman to patronize me.
It wasn’t until the doctor reiterated this Goose Egg diagnosis did I finally start to believe them. I guess this really is a thing.
Enter my love of ice packs. I’d bet you money that half my freezer space is filled with ice packs, the other half is the popsicles that the kiddos need AFTER the icepack. Before Jack-Jack was born we had maybe 6 icepacks on hand, and even I thought that was excessive. But now, 6 years into having a little boy, I have discovered that I can’t have too many icepacks or band aids.
I received a call yesterday from the school. Jack-Jack was playing tag and ran head first into a pole and was getting quite the goose egg. I stopped by the school to quadruple check he was ok. I may have learned how to not be so freaked out by the sight of a goose egg, but the sight of any of my kids trying to be super tough is always going to make my heart explode. I gave the sweet boy a huge hug, checked his tickle reflexes, asked him if he wanted to makes chocolate milkshakes after school and scooted him back to class. He will still let me do that when he is in college, right? Can everyone stop growing up for a few minutes, please?