My older son decided to sneak a steak knife into his room last night to pry open a plastic shell that came around a sucker. Apparently, he sliced his finger open, then went to the bathroom to fix it and hide the evidence. I heard him whimpering in the bathroom and sent my husband in to see what was going on. My bathroom looked like a slasher flick. Blood everywhere and a good chunk of my son’s thumb pad was dangling loose and bleeding profusely. So off to the ER we went and soon found out that you don’t go to the ER nearest our house. After the joys of being with my son through numbing shots, multiple rounds of wound cleaning, and 8 stitches (which is a lot when you think about how small a 6-year-old thumb is), we get discharged with two prescriptions. We live in South Seattle, and being in a city-esque setting, you figured it would be relatively easy to fill scripts due to a number of 24-hour pharmacies nearby, particularly at 11:30 at night. Ha. Ha. Ha. The first Walgrens we went to was 5 miles from the house and I stood in line for 10 minutes and saw NOBODY being helped in front of me. On to the next Walgrens, 5 miles away. They have a pharmacy tech out sick and they are still trying to catch up with the day’s scripts and the wait would be an hour and a half. Lucky enough, the gal working there realized what a long evening it had already been, input my information in the computer system, asked where I lived, and called the next Walgrens where the wait was only 20 minutes. So, 3 Walgrens, 2 sleeping kids, and 2 hours later, we have scripts and get to come home. Bedtime was 2:30am this morning. I just keep reminding myself of what I was like at this age, what I’ve heard my husband and his brothers were like at this age, and tell myself that he won’t be 6 forever. Just long enough to turn me grey.