Here's the thing: I love my coffee table.
Yeah, that's the one. Look how the chrome shines, look how the marble glitters! Look how un-child friendly it is! Joe tried to warn me that someone was going to get hurt by that table, and it would probably be our children. "BUT LOOK HOW PRETTY IT IS," I totally logically countered.
A few months after Lulu was born I made a cover for the table out of some leftover batting and cream vinyl. It hid the beautiful marble surface and the shiny chrome, because even I was coming to understand that it wouldn't be the best furniture for a baby who would soon be pulling herself up and trying to walk. Covered it has remained, and any bonk or head-long tumble resulted in nothing worse than any other encounter with furniture, so I breathed a sigh of relief.
Until Monday night while I was making dinner.
Proximo and the kids were bouncing around, as all children do right before dinner everywhere on this planet and any other. The pot was on the stove, nearing a boil. I was prying open the box of Barilla Thin Spaghetti and reaching for the salt. Proximo, jumped laterally, head first (as usual) from the couch and into the table, slicing his head open despite the vinyl-cover (the batting having slipped from that edge.) He started screaming, but since he's almost always screaming over some injustice or another, it took us a second to respond. Joe turned to see the blood start streaming down my baby's face. I ran upstairs to grab a clean towel to press to the wound, reminding myself that head wounds always look more terrible than they are on account of 17,000 cubic fathom pounds sterling of blood in them, or something like that.
(Don't worry, all pictures of blood and gore are at the end of this point out of respect for your delicate constitutions.)
Within 3 minutes of the injury I was in the car with Proximo in his seat crossing my fingers for green lights and no radars. We were at the ER in less than 10 minutes after the slice, and that includes the time that it took for me to walk from the other side of the road with my 40 pound child since all the ER parking spots were taken by people who were obviously not suffering a real emergency. I resented every person in that ER, because if the blood isn't flowing, or your bone perpendicular from its previous location, why are you in the ER? Look sicker, dammit, or thanks for playing.
This was, officially, Proximo's 5th visit to the ER: thumb slice, near eye-miss, impaction, suspected impaction, and head wound. I asked about a frequent customer card but it turns out they don't do that.
And the sad thing? I still love that coffee table and I don't want to give it up. Joe says that he'll move it to the living room, but what should I put in its place? A pile of air where the perfect coffee table used to be, damp carpet with my tears, and droplets of my baby's blood? Should I sew a new cover with actual batting that could resist boy? Because I don't know if there is any coffee table on earth, other than a giant marshmallow, that could be truly injury-free (and even then, someone would get hurt, I swear.)
Tell me, Internets!
Here is the blood and gore portion of this post, in case you've the stomach for such things: