Mr. Lip, meet Mr. Floor

We've all done it: that unintentional face plant on a less-than-fluffy surface. Noah's no exception. In his short, almost 14 months of life, he's been up close and personal with the tub wall, every chair in our house, the carpeted floor in his room, doors, open cupboards—whatever happens to be in the path of his directionally challenged swagger.

On Saturday afternoon, however, his sweet little face finally met our (fake) hardwood floor in the living room. He sealed the deal with a kiss. A very painful kiss.

Our poor little man was playing with his big plastic ball, which he loves to slowly body surf across the floor. But this time he rode that wave a little too long and wiped out, face-first. I didn't even have time to get out the standard parental warning from where I sat just five or so feet away. WHAM! That's the thick, sharp sound that resonated from our walls.

Slightly stunned, I hopped up and scooped up our baby/toddler, who was already crying—a sure sign he was truly hurt. Noah rarely cries when he bumps into things, so I knew he must have done a number on himself this time.

His little mouth was oozing blood when I could get his hands away from his face long enough to assess the damage (all while trying to cuddle & sooth... that's a tough thing to multitask). Bumps I can handle; blood makes me a bit anxious.

I actually surprised myself with my triage procedures. I asked David to fetch some ice in a zip-lock baggy; I whipped off Noah's shirt, which was quickly collecting red streaks and splots; I talked calmly to Noah and rocked him soothingly; and then I was quick to apply the ice and gentle pressure to slow the flow of blood and swelling. Not bad, huh?

Noah only cried for 30 seconds. Tough man. Actually, I think he loved sucking ice water out of our obviously generic zip-top baggies so much that he forgot that his lip was split open and poofing up to unusual fullness.

My pictures really don't do the owie justice. Let's just say I was a little leery of taking Noah out in public where folks I didn't know well could scrutinize his newest injury. I didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about my son's fat lip (and how sad that I have to worry about such a thing).

Anyway, we all survived, thank goodness. All that's left now is a tiny scab on Noah's upper lip and a mental mark on mommy's one-down, five-hundred-to-go Noah accident tally.