So we had a little incident yesterday. I was pushing E in his swing out in the garage, while also throwing the ball to the dog, and I must have stepped a bit forward from my spot. The swing, holding my 31 pound child, hit me square in the side of the belly. I stopped with an OOF! and poor E looked back and said, "I sorry Mommy." I told him he didn't need to be sorry, and he replied, "Yeah, Cozzie." Again, the dog to blame.
But it wasn't anyone's fault, except my own for not being more careful. The old me would have brushed it off, as I wasn't hurt and the little guy was still moving around very well. Maybe I would have called my doctor. But, well, we all know what happened to the old me.
So I called my doctor--of course, after office hours--and when she called back she told me I COULD go into the hospital for monitoring. She didn't think there was a problem. But, if anything had happened, I would never have forgiven myself. So we went in.
I didn't freak out. I didn't panic. I knew that things would be OK. I hoped. But things did end up being OK--the little guy was active the whole time, strong heartbeat and lots of moving around. Thankfully. It was a much different visit from the last time we went in immediately.
C and I knew things could have been different. Nearly seven months ago things were dramatically, horribly different. This time we got to go home after 2 hours, and we even laughed a little.
I feel like I dodged a bullet this time.