Twenty four hours post-dog bite, the following truths have become evident:
1) Our kids are not flesh and blood; they are constructed out of whatever material the airline industry uses to produce those black boxes.
Our kids are TOUGH with a capital T - tough like the old Samsonite luggage that they used to throw in the ape cage in those ads. If Parker is feeling any discomfort from his stitches, you would never know it. Kid is bouncing off of the walls, wrestling with his brother - same ol', same ol'. The tooth scrapes below and to the side of the big cut are fading fast, and I swear that the big cut is already knitting itself together.
His only complaint thus far? "The antibiotic is kind of sour, Mom. But I'll take it - so I don't die." (Okay, so I may have painted the picture of what sepsis can do to a person with an overly large brush - but the kid is scared straight, for sure, and he is taking every drop of that antibiotic, whether it is sour or not.)
We knew that Connor was Teflon, after broken arms #1 and 2. Good to know that Parker inherited the same genetic makeup.
2) The lasting lesson of Dog Bite '11? Yeah, there doesn't seem to be one. A couple of hours ago, I heard the six year-old chasing the smaller dog around the house hollering, "Come HERE, Ace, so I can dress you up like a ROCK STAR!" Apparently, he is aware that he is Teflon - and he plans to take full advantage of it.
3) Okay, maybe we learned a small lesson from Dog Bite '11. That lesson being, bites are "sexy" - they get your parents' attention, and they can be milked for major dramatic effect. Just prior to the small dog humiliation episode, Connor was helping Parker organize his train table (before you say, "Aw, that's sweet" - big brother had lost his computer privileges, little brother had lost his Wii privileges, and they were working together to clean each others' rooms in a last-ditch attempt to avoid the child equivalent of NCAA "sudden death"). I was a room away, packing down Christmas, and I heard a minor skirmish break out. This was followed by silence, and then a blood-curdling scream: "MOM! CONNOR BIT ME!" This was followed by an obviously flabbergasted Connor running into my field of vision, screaming equally loudly, "MOM! He bit HIMSELF. You HAVE to believe me. He's trying to get me in trouble!"
I do believe you, kid. I have met your brother.
I also liked little brother's retort: "I did NOT bite myself. CONNOR bit ME. I am LYING THE TRUTH." Um, Freudian slip there, bud?
Like I said - same ol', same ol'. The only thing that has changed is the "year-to-date amount applied toward deductible" dollar figure on our insurance EOB.