As prepared as we were in the medical supplies and accoutrements for Ellie's T1D care, I was completely UNprepared when the call from the medical bay aboard the cruise ship called to announce our son was in their care.
Just an hour ago we had registered Ben, our 7 year old boy, to attend an evening playing in the supervised child activity center cheekily named Ocean Adventures. We were told it was 'Survivor Night' and he would have a grand old time with his older cousins battling it out until the end.
The end came early.
According to the activities director, Ben climbed a padded pole (used earlier in a game, but off limits n-o-w) and attempted to leap into the air in order to jump over his crouching cousin. A move that, had he made it, would have crowned him the unofficial super-survivor of the young male crew.
But he didn't make it . . . . . hence the phone call.
Instead of landing on his feet, Ben landed on his side/back and his head come into contact with the only non-padded part of the play area, a door threshold.
"Not serious!", according to the director on the phone. Simply following procedure to take him down to see the doctor. No need to worry.
Dave decided to go see what all the fuss was about while Ellie and I stayed behind in the stateroom.
More time than I thought reasonable passed, and just as I was getting ready to search the boat, in walked Head-Wound-Harry sheepishly sporting three blue stitches in the bad of his noggin.
While Dave was trying to explain to me why my baby boy had plastic threads hanging out of his hairline, Ellie was quietly walking around and whispering 'something' about 'somewhere.'
And we wait. Wait until the juice box is gone and her symptoms subside.
:: Breathe out ::
And we move on with our vacation because nothing about the above occurrences are a rarity or even a plans-changing-crisis when you are a parent.