Bruiser.

So, Netta’s nose has stitches. A whopping eight of them. They’re super tiny, though. This photo makes it look alot worse than it is. This was taken a couple days ago, too. It looks much less red and better now.

The other day she climbed a chair and fell off, busting her nose wide open. Through the cartilage. Ow. Had to go to Children’s hospital emergency room. Jessica did all this while I was at work, a gift for poor Ben who can’t really handle seeing his kids bleeding and in pain. I woulda handled it, just would have sucked. So thanks Jessica!

Anyway, ever since Netta has been home she’s been one happy little bugger. So that’s good, no real pain. The main worry (for me) is some sort of permanent scarring. Which is likely inevitable but will be super tiny. We’re doing everything we can to minimize chances of scarring and I do take some solace knowing that if for some odd reason it doesn’t heal well or she ends up with a third nostril, a wee bit of plastic surgery is an option. But that would be a last resort. Jessica isn’t worried about it at all, and I’m probably being a little too worried. The doctors seem to think that it will heal up beautifully. I’m sure kids her age regenerate skin every five minutes anyway.

The main benefit is that I don’t have to call my daughters ‘baby’ all the time. It has been my default name for both of them. Netta’s nose has been a temporary gift to those of us less able to tell them apart.

Our little fucking angel.

Sometimes Jessica and I will lay in bed and revel in how pure and wonderful Lewis is. He’s essence of boy, of childhood. You can drink him in. He’ll snuggle, he’ll sing made up songs as he runs naked through the house leaving a trail of joy, and if you make a mistake and yell at him he curls up like a rolly polly and hides and cries. And when he cries he wails. His feelings run through him water through a faucet. When I come home from work he always trots up and chants, “Papa Papa Papa” and gives me a wonderful dancing hug. The other night Jessica turned to me, amazed, and said “He’s just a fucking angel.”

Netta’s home and happy.

7 or 8 stiches up the middle of her nose. She looks like a mini-pirate or something. But luckily she not in any real pain and, so far, hasn't even seemed to notice her hard-core-looking injury. She's bumbling around happily like any other day. Art was scared to see it this morning and refused to be in the same room as her. I explained to him how it looks and he eventually–and courageously–trudged upstairs to see her. He was happy and relieved to have overcome his fear. "Wasn't that brave, Papa?"