Tuesday

Do things come in Threes?

On Thursday my husband watched a report about the accidents that children have; he came away commenting that we were very lucky that our four don’t get into many scrapes.
On Friday my three year old daughter came to me with a bit of blue crayon stuck up her nose. It wasn’t protruding, and after 10 minutes of telling her to blow like an elephant she was getting upset and her biggest brother kept saying, “Whatever you do, don’t sniff!”
I explained to her that we would have to make a trip to the hospital, whereupon her other brother started yelling that she was going to die. Suffice to say she wasn’t keen on this idea and began howling. Warning her that this was her last ‘blow’ before I put them all in the car, she blew with all her might. Plenty of fear and snot had done the trick, and Bingo! Out popped two centimetres of crayon.
On Sunday, my youngest son managed to run into a window. He did this outside running around the back of the house, and caught himself on the corner of the frame. We haven’t got double glazing, it’s those old type metal frames that were made in the days before child safety, and he managed to produce worthy amounts of blood for the amount of screaming. There was no way he wanted to go to hospital so we cleaned him up and watched him carefully for several hours. It turned out to be my fault, for leaving the window open. By Monday morning he was deciding how he would present this escapade to his classmates.
The third accident happened today, and we’re still reeling. I had an hour and a half between school runs, and had managed to do a food shop and had just finished feeding the girls lunch. The phone rang and I cleared the table as I answered. It was a friend, Clare, phoning to say that I didn’t need to collect her son from school.
As I chatted my daughters jumped up and down in front of me demanding to know what they were having for a treat. I’d prepared strawberries and pointed to the bowls. The youngest was fine about it and took her bowl to the table, but the eldest was stamping her feet demanding the chocolate cake she had seen me put in the fridge earlier. I shook my head repeatedly and pointed to the fruit. She turned her back on me, pouting with fury, so I ignored her and filled the sink as I chatted.
I heard the fridge doors open and said, “Hang on,” to Clare.
I’m not entirely sure in what order things happened next. Jenna was pulling on the handles of our big four-door American fridge freezer and the whole thing tipped forward. There was this huge crashing noise that changed to screams that didn’t stop. I’ve read stories about people screaming and not even realising they were doing it, but I don’t think I’ve ever really believed it before today.
I knew I’d dropped the phone when I kicked something and saw it shoot across the floor to rest under the table. My youngest daughter was screaming too and tried running towards me. But the floor was covered in salad cream and vinaigrette dressing, there was glass everywhere and she fell forward onto it. I tried to get to her but fell down too.
I didn’t want to go to the fridge -- there weren’t any screams coming from there, and I was scared. How could a three-year-old have a three-by-six fridge fall on her and survive? It lay on its front, the top resting about a foot off the ground.
I remember trying to avoid the glass as I crawled across the floor; even on all fours I kept slipping. I reached my youngest and grabbed the phone at the same time. She clung to me as I hit the green ‘live’ button trying to get the dial tone.
I started shouting to Jenna as I pressed 999, and my youngest wouldn’t stop screaming and I couldn’t hear either Jenna or the emergency operator. Crouching forward, I looked down the small hollow that was caused by two of the doors being wedged open.
Big greens eyes stared back, and Jenna's face crumpled when she saw me.
“It hurts mommy.”
Pushing my youngest away I ordered her into the hall. She was covered in jam and glass, but bless her heart, she did as she was told.
Getting up I dropped the phone again and tried to lift the fridge. Even as I did it, I realised I might make things worse by causing the fridge to topple flat, and how would I pull her out if I was holding it up?
It didn’t matter. I couldn’t lift the thing an inch. I remembered the phone and snapped at Sasha to shut up so I could hear. I feel bad for snapping at her like that. She didn’t quieten down, and all I could say to the operator was “I can’t hear you!”
At last the operator shouted, “Which service?”
“Ambulance and fire.”
“You have to pick one,” she continued talking but Sasha’s sobs had gotten worse and she drowned the voice out.
Stupidly, I started explaining that I had never dialled emergency before and didn’t know I had to choose, and the operator, obviously tired of my babblings put me through to ambulance. Somehow I managed to explain what had happened and where we live.
I can’t remember saying good-bye but the phone was gone as I crouched down and told Jenna that everything would be fine. The fridge light was still on and her mass of curls lifted slightly and she looked up with tears running down her face. A droning sound started from the fridge and I hurried to get up and cut the power. When I got back Jenna lay in shadow.
At some point I recall trying to pull her out, but I couldn’t catch any grip off the floor and I was still wearing my ridiculously high-heeled sandals. Jenna kept saying, “I’m cold,” and “It hurts, Mommy”.
Sasha stayed in the doorway whimpering and wringing her dress. I have no idea where the dog vanished to; he’s normally in the way.
I heard the ambulance pull up and ran to the balcony to tell them which door to use (the back door was blocked by the fridge), and they walked in and immediately called the fire service.
They got me busy collecting towels to kneel on, and boxes to prop the fridge in case it moved. One of the ambulance crew knelt down and talked to Jenna. But she wouldn’t answer, so they put me on the floor to talk to her.
I don’t know how the paramedic knew that the firemen had arrived, but she told me to go and tell them to use the front steps. They were walking up the drive; the truck couldn’t get up the driveway so they just parked it in the road.
It was very busy after that, all these men came in and stepped around the fridge trying to decide how to get it up. Clare rushed in, having driven like a mad woman from the other side of the island when she’d heard my screams down the phone. She had also called my husband. For some reason this hadn’t occurred to me at all, although I do remember my mobile ringing when I was on the land line. I had tried to answer it but I couldn’t hear anything so I’d thrown it across the worktop in frustration. It had been my husband calling and it was still on. He ran in but I don’t remember who explained to him that Jenna was trapped. Everyone arrived at the same time.
The fridge lifted and the paramedic had to shout at Jenna to stay still. As the fridge up righted Jenna was snatched out and passed to me. She wasn’t crying any more but was able to hold on tight as she was checked for injury.
The fridge wouldn’t stand and the firemen had to turn it and prop it against the wall. I think the feet must have been damaged on the way down. The frame is buckled where the hinges took the strain and the doors don’t close.
Jenna escaped with a one-inch scratch to the back of her calf; although the hospital has warned me to expect considerable bruising.
Before leaving in the ambulance the crew had asked if I wanted to change, even my underwear was stained with tomato juice.

I’m cut, my hands, arms and stitches in my knee.
I’ve picked the glass out of Sasha’s hair and mine, we’ve showered, the floor is swept and scrubbed, the remaining food hosed off (the cake didn’t make it), and I read the girls a bedtime story before kisses and lights out.
The later it gets, the stranger I feel. I keep torturing myself with ‘what ifs’. Almost afraid to go to sleep in case things are different when I wake.