The Coconut Game

It's Wednesday morning, there's a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, the classic Muppet Family Christmas on the TV, and I'm not at work.

Nope.  I'm lounging in pajamas, at home, with both kids.  Why?

Because of the Coconut Game.

"What the hell's a Coconut Game?" you might ask.  Good question.  I honestly don't know. 

You could ask my four-year-old - it's her thing - but she probably wouldn't be able to explain it that well for ya.  From what I can gather, it's a lot like 'Duck Duck Goose'. . . which, consequently, means that it's a total blast if you're under eight years old, but pretty shitty if you're older than that.

(I mean, as much fun as I like standing up, sitting down, and being hit in the head and all. . .)

SUCKS.

Anyway, last night was Bath Night.  That means that our wind-down routine with the girls is an additional half-hour long.  Not bad, you say, but when you only have three or four hours of home time per night once one gets home from work, that's a solid chunk of time.  Now, last night, like any other Bath Night, our kids had gotten out of the bath tub and, in a nudist state of pre-pajama bliss, were growing more and more hyper as we continually asked them to dress themselves.

It was from within this moment of usual chaos that Alayna - in her infinite wisdom - suggested Abby join her in playing the Coconut Game.  As the two began jumping up and down, hitting each other (and us) on top of the head, and progressively winding themselves up into a frenzy, Abby began throwing herself back on a bean bag chair we keep in their bedroom.  Over and over again she'd jump back onto this thing, laughing hysterically. . .

. . . and then she missed it.

With a load crack, her head struck the marble sill of their bedroom window.  She began crying, and for a brief moment Kris and I shared a God, that's kid's gonna hurt herself one of these days looks.  I suggested Kris take her into the bathroom, where it was brighter, to check her head - just in case - because she hit it pretty hard. . .

Kris suddenly shrieked as blood began seeping from a large laceration across the back of Abby's head.

As we scrambled around, grabbing arbitrary items like purses, shoes, and car keys, Alayna stumbled along behind us, wailing in a miserable state of confusion and fear for her sister's bleeding head.  I loaded her into a car seat and climbed into the van, only to realize - with a small degree of modesty - that I wasn't wearing pants.  Or shoes.  I ducked inside, dressed into an outfit that modern society would deem 'legit' for public use, and grabbed my phone. 

Within seconds, we were speeding down the street to the Florida Hospital of Kissimmee.

And, of course, we hit every red light on the way there.

Abby was pretty quiet on the drive there, while I sat on the floor beside her car seat, pressing a now-ruined bath washcloth to the back of her head.  Alayna had softened her lamenting down to a pathetic whimper, but was still pretty shaken up.

Kris, mid-heart attack

When we pulled into the Hospital, Kris rushed Abby into the Emergency Room while I parked.  By the time Alayna and I came through into the waiting room, they were already wrapping up Abby's head with gauze to staunch the bleeding.  As it turns out, Abby would need several STAPLES in her head.

Kris and I, in our naivety, assumed that we wouldn't have to wait all that long to see a doctor, seeing how our child - who was two - had a severe laceration across her head. . .


But, as usual, we underestimated the stupidity of Central Floridians.


The waiting room at the Florida Hospital Emergency Room was full.  And there was one - yes, one - doctor on staff for the night.  Now, if the waiting room had been full of gun-shot victims (surprisingly enough, for Kissimmee, it wasn't), I wouldn't have minded so much. . . but instead, we found ourselves surrounded by a horde of obese ladies who were complaining about their blood sugar levels.

I'm not a diabeticologist or anything, but isn't that something where you can just eat a candy bar and shake it off?  My two-year-old is bleeding from her bashed-in head, for Christ's sake.


Anyway, we ended up waiting around for nearly three hours.  Seriously.  During that time, Kris had taken Alayna with her back to the house to pick up some books, socks and shoes, and several items we had left behind in our frantic dash out the front door. . . but even with all these new items on hand, the kids were growing restless having to sit in a chair for hour after hour. 


Even with the abundance of bizarre anecdotes on hand, courtesy of our fellow waiting room patrons. 

Finally, when the kids' patience was at critical low levels and Kris and I were ready to ask the front desk for a staple gun so we could do the job ourselves, we were finally admitted to a patient room. . .

Awaiting the staples. . .

The Cannonball tries making sense of the Weather Channel. . .

The doctor on staff last night may have passed medical school, but I'm sure she flunked Bedside Manner 210: How to Not Come Across as a Cold, Heartless Bitch.  Perhaps she couldn't make it to class on time, or she just couldn't wrap her head around the whole 'emphasize with the needs and concerns of apprehensive patients.'  Who knows.  Long story short, she treated my daughter's head like a sheet of dry wall (you staple dry wall, right?) - and sped through the process with the indifference of someone taking a crap.

. . . and she even had to pull a staple or two out, stating she "didn't like how they went in." 

For the record, toddlers LOVE getting staples shot into their skulls.

After Abby's head was mended, and all necessary paperwork and care instructions were provided, we were finally discharged.  It was after midnight, and the Houghs were officially funned out with the Florida Hospital of Kissimmee.

If you ever find yourself with a serious, Coconut Game-induced head injury, I personally recommend you skip the place all together. 

But that's just my opinion.

After nearly five hours at the hospital, the Houghs prepare to disembark. . .

- Brian

Having kids totally rules.