It was a classic toddler fall; too much playground equipment, not enough coordination. Henry had been attempting to traverse these raised flattened steps and simply lost his footing. Despite the fact that four moms were literally within arms' reach of him, we all watched him fall approximately 18 inches to the padded, squishy floor without so much as throwing an arm out to catch the kid.
Needless to say, he's fine, but I don't think Scott is.
It happened right as we were getting ready to leave, so the whole walk to the car, Scott kept up a running dialogue with himself, muttering things like, "Henry fall!" "Henry hurt head!" "Henry has owie." He appeared deeply concerned about these issues, despite my reassurance that a.) Henry is just fine, b.) Henry's mom is more than competent to handle a playground owie, and c.) chicks dig scars (and bumps and bruises.)
The Bear was not placated.
On the way to the grocery store, he asked me repeatedly if Henry needed a band-aid or medicine. I told him yes, Henry would likely be receiving excellent care from his mother that may or may not involve band-aids and/or medicine. Scotty continued to fret. As we passed the pharmacy aisle on our way to dairy, Scotty stopped to point out a box of Dora band-aids. "Henry," he told me solemnly. I just nodded, since at this point, I was running out of words and patience.
This extreme toddler empathy comes on the heels of yesterday, when Scotty determined his stuffed turtle had an invisible owie. I suggested we give the turtle some pretend medicine, and would you believe we spent 20 minutes drugging that poor turtle? Every time I was ready to move on to the next activity, Scotty would stop me and say, "No. Turtle hurt. Turtle needs medicine." That turtle was probably so high on his faux narcotics by the end of the day that I half-expected to see him on the news, having robbed a pain management clinic.
By the time we sat down for lunch today, Scotty's incessant concern finally caused me to text Jen and inquire about Henry's current well-being. She assured me, and I showed Scotty (my illiterate toddler) the text: Henry was just fine. Scotty looked at me like he didn't quite believe me, but since he didn't have the words to recommend a CAT scan or assess for traumatic brain injury, the conversation blissfully ended.
This is my question: if the Bear is so medically-minded, where was he on Sunday night when I needed him? We really goofed by getting a baby-sitter. I firmly believe all of the runners would have been better served had the Bear been on staff at the race. But then again, since his only known treatment to date is passing out pretend medicine and applying lots of band-aids to non-bleeding wounds, maybe it was best he stayed home.
Race update: The Health District of Southern Nevada issued a survey to all runners who became ill on Sunday night. I got a call from them earlier today, and they'd like me to come in and give them a stool sample to test for possible organisms. Having previously experienced the humiliation of providing a stool sample when pregnant but being far too curious to give up now, I agreed. Looks like I'll be pooping in a hat this weekend. Hopefully next week, I'll stop talking about poop in every single post.