Dark. Stars. Moon. Doctor.

“Maybe we (meaning me) should see if he needs stitches,” Daddy said regarding the gash over FirstBorn’s left eye. Not quite two, he had tripped over a giant (stuffed toy) crocodile and stumbled into the entertainment center. It didn’t seem to be more than the typical fall-down-go-boom routine: FirstBorn was crying, but he wasn’t too broken up over it. So, I got out the fluorescent doobaids (bandages) and put one on him and one on Daddy. FirstBorn wouldn’t keep his on, nor would he tolerate an ice pack, so I had figured “Okay, it’s naptime, anyway, let’s just go nunnight.”

Well, when he woke up, the cut was still oozing, or maybe he had brushed it with his sleeve…either way, this brings us to the big debate. Did he need stitches or not? I was hesitant, because I didn’t think they would want to stitch a kid’s face, but I figured butterfly patches would be tolerated about as well as the doobaids (I don’t even know if they use butterfly patches anymore — I am referencing my own childhood, which was more than a generation ago, really).

Daddy said, “Well, wouldn’t you feel bad if we found out he should have had stitches and he didn’t?”

I weighed my choices and wondered what I would feel worse about, the potential scar or having to hold my child down while someone sewed his face up.

“Okay! Okay!” So I called our doctor’s office. But since it was after hours on a Sunday, I spoke with an on-call doctor whom I didn’t know. I felt idiotic trying to explain, “Well, he cut his head several hours ago, and I’m only just now calling…the cut’s not too deep…but it’s not really closing…and kind of oozing.”

The doctor suggested I take FirstBorn to the emergency room. So, I got him psyched up to go in the car. To go for a ride with Mommy! Let’s go get dressed — we’re going to see the doctor! Fortunately, I had a diaper bag packed (I’ve learned), and we were out the door without much delay.

It was a beautiful night with a full moon, and we had plenty to talk about on the ride. “Dark. Stars. Moon. Horsey house. Cars. Night. Doctor!”

We got to the hospital, which is 25 minutes away. I wondered if I should have gone to the closer hospital, but since it didn’t seem like a huge emergency — I mean, we did wait several hours before we even called — we went to the bigger hospital. It was our “regular” hospital, where all our doctors are affiliated and where the boybies were born.

I looked at FirstBorn’s cut again when we got out of the car. It really didn’t look that bad to me.

When we checked in, the receptionist said, “Oh, no need to ask why you’re here. Just have a seat; there are a few people before you. There are some toys in the corner under the TV.”

I turned around, and there were numerous other parties in the room. There were a couple of other little boys playing with the toys. I asked FirstBorn, “Toys, Honey, or sit with Mommy?” “Sit. Mommy,” he said, but he wanted to watch the other boys. Their mother tried to rein them in, and I said, “That’s okay, he’s not sick or anything. He just might need stitches.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, eyes riveted to my son’s facial wound. “I can’t believe you’re so calm.”

Then I started feeling really guilty. What kind of mom was I that I didn’t call the doctor right away, that I was hesitant about even calling several hours later, that I was “so calm!?”

And sitting near the TV was not the place to be. First of all, each of the three times our name was called, I didn’t hear, and second of all, everyone was looking at us — or so it seemed. We were summoned twice before it was even time to go into the ER — once for admin and once for preliminary procedures, where the technician did a bunch of diagnostics and plastered some cold gel on a cotton ball to FirstBorn’s head and fastened it with a bandage. I prayed he’d keep it on because not only did it clean the cut, it supposedly numbed it. “In case he needed stitches,” she whispered. I whispered back, “We don’t have to whisper; he doesn’t know what stitches are.”

At last, our turn came to go behind the double doors, into the actual see-the-doctor section of the emergency room. The nurse technician wheeled in a TV/VCR combo with different selections, including Blue’s Clues. We watched an entire video while waiting for the doctor. Finally, she arrived.

We exchanged pleasantries, and as I was signing at the X’s on the forms she had on her clipboards, the doctor said the nicest thing: “Well, I don’t have to stitch it, but it would probably heal better.” Thank you, Doctor!

I turned around when FirstBorn said tentatively, “Mommy?” and tried not to act alarmed. The nurse had swaddled him like an infant, arms bound to his sides.

I said, “It’s okay, honey.” (Though I really didn’t think it was — I would have been freaked out to be mummified like that.) “Mommy’s here.” And I climbed up on the gurney with him.

I watched as the doctor stitched. I usually get grossed out by stuff like that, but I just imagined Daddy watching BabyC’s birth by C-section, and I figured if he could watch that, I could watch this. Plus, I didn’t want to predispose FirstBorn to the idea that anything unpleasant was going on. I had to put on a brave front.

He did okay until the fourth stitch and then started to lose it. Poor kid. It was late, he had been waiting at the hospital for more than two hours, and he was bound in a sheet, unable to move his arms and legs.

After the fifth stitch, the doctor proclaimed she was finished. I got off the table, the nurse unwrapped FirstBorn and released him, and he melted into my arms. We sat together for a few minutes to pull ourselves together. I was relieved that he had been such a good sport and that what could have been a miserable experience was actually not so bad (not that I’d want to repeat it any time soon…).

“Ready to go, Honey?” I asked when the nurse came back to ready the room for the next patient.

“I ready, Mommy!” FirstBorn said. And to the nurse, “Thank you.” and to all the other patients on the ward, “Bye-bye, nunnight!”

And we made our way back home, chatting companionably about “Dark. Stars. Moon. Horsey house. Cars. Night. Doctor.”

You’ll find a version of this story in my book, MotherMorphosis. I’m working on the anniversary edition.

✍️ I used to write B2B content for Corporate America. Here’s my portfolio. Six months ago, I made a career pivot to the financial services industry. 📈

If you would like to support my writing, please buy me a coffee. Thank you! ☕️

© 2026 Caroline B. Poser. All rights reserved.