In which I complain about it taking five hours for a nine year old boy to get five stitches. And I complain about watching the adult with an eye infection who walked in after us get put in room before my son with the open wound on his hip. Of course they made sure I had paid the co-pay within minutes of being put in a room.
In which I thank God, that despite the big tumble over the top of his bike and huge bruise, there are no internal injuries. And despite the long, stressful day my sweet brave boy is at the table, laughing with his sisters drinking some hot tea.