His point of view

This what it looked like, for him. For my little man who had to go to the ER today because his forehead decided to say hello to a brick patio and the metal car he happened to have in his hand, right at that very moment.

This is what it looked like, for him.

I don't always get to see what the world looks like for him. Actually, I rarely do. Sometimes when I end up on my hands and knees reaching for the ball that landed in the corner under the comfy chair, I catch a glimpse of his world: how tall everything seems. How the counter top feels like Mount Everest. How the refrigerator feels like the Empire State Building. How the sink feels like the Grand Canyon.

But today, this unexpected glimpse caught me off guard.

I was flipping through the pictures I took of the gash on his forehead and found this image - probably taken while he was allowed to flip through episodes of Thomas and a few key clips from Mary Poppins while we waited for the numbing ointment to take affect.

This image stopped me in my tracks.

It stopped the what-do-I-say-to-the-mom-whose-daughter caused the gash because saying "Eva don't push" isn't really working so well. It stopped all the have-to-get-this-done before the in-laws arrive tomorrow. It stopped all the frantic need to-do-ness before the end of the year is up. It stopped the brave and together mom routine that made everyone in the ER comment on how calm I was - seeing that this was my first, his first, and so on. It just stopped everything.

And I stopped and cried.