Quarter to eight is the time when our girls always are getting ready for bed. Teeth are brushed, pajamas are pulled over heads, and lights are shortly out.
We had an exception last week. Reese overturned the normal end-of-the day routine when she slammed her finger in the door between the garage and our hallway right before her bedtime. I heard the cry before I saw the damage.
The door was shut completely. Her finger was pinned, and there she stood, crying and shaking, as Joel opened the door to release her bruised and bloodied pinkie.
I don't know how doctors and nurses do what they do.
We headed straight to an urgent care center. After two ice packs, a steep dose of Tylenol, an X-ray, a thick gauze bandage, one kind doctor who performed magic tricks and doled out generous amounts of stickers, and a good report (no broken fingers), Reese and I headed into the parking lot for our drive home.
It was over an hour past her bedtime. She commented on the darkness and admitted that she was tired. During the drive home her head slumped into the side of her booster seat. She unconsciously drew her thumb to her mouth for comfort.
She'd been through a lot.
"You know what, Mom?"
"I'm kind of sad that I'm not going to be able to play on the monkey bars at recess tomorrow."
That's exactly when I knew that her recovery was going to be a quick one. Very little gets in between our girl and the monkey bars.