My poor, dear, sweet Baby Dude had his stitches removed. And by removed, I mean, serious temper tantrum throwing while screaming at the top of his lungs ‘cuz HOLYHELLINAHANDBASKET, we had to hold him down AGAIN so the scary friggin’ doctor could wave around some scissors and super-sharp tweezers close to his lip to try to pry the stubborn stitches away from his skin in order to cut them, all while he cried “Momma!” and “No, no, noooo!” moving the aforementioned lip, making it impossible for her to do it. Who knew three teeny blue stitches could be the death of me?
Twenty minutes of pure unadulterated torture for all involved. I wanted to throw up.
I swear to crap, kids, we’re Never. Friggin. Doing. This. Again. If it takes me wrapping you all up in bubble wrap, or following you around in that spray-foam crap, I’ll do it. I swear I will.
My poor Baby Dude is tough, though. After a marathon nursing session, he was up and around, doing this thing, eating everything in sight, drinking perfectly fine. He’s probably going to rock something similar to the Harrison Ford scar, though. He’ll be fine with it, though. Especially when he discovers that chicks dig scars.
Moms, however, don’t dig ’em. Especially how they came about. Double-especially when stitches are involved.
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