It had to happen, but knowing that didn't make it any more fun.
Yesterday afternoon, after a nice snack-time, Alastair went downstairs to play in the den. His usual play-pattern includes his rock&roar dinosaur, his activity cube, and perambulating around the coffee table. When he's doing this last routine, he will sometimes spin around and grab on to the futon, shuffling his way up and down the length of it.
Yesterday was no exception, except when he spun, he didn't do such a hot job of grabbing the futon. At least not with his hands. Amanda and I both heard the thump/crack of baby on wood, and the position his little body was in looked awful. His head was on the edge of the sofa, but was wrenched back on his little super-arched back. I'm not sure his little arms even reached the floor. Uh oh.
I moved him and the wailing began in earnest. Amanda grabbed him to comfort him, and he would have none of it. A quick trip upstairs for better light revealed some blood on his face, and after a moment or so, I figured out it was coming from his mouth.
Amanda was not calm. Alastair was not happy.
But when he opened his mouth to scream again, all was clear: he'd pierced his tongue with his little teeth. Nothing worse. We gave him a cold teething ring, dabbed off the blood with a paper towel, and held him tight for a few minutes.
It was awful, but 10 minutes later, we were playing like champs.
(Ok, ok, so it wasn't really the first time he's bled. I did cut his fingers with the nail-cutter when he was a month old, but this is the first time his own actions have lead to blood loss.)
I swear, that kid has a great future as a civil engineer, so long as he focuses on his interest in testing structural integrity. I just wish he'd find different instruments to use; his head won't always suffice.
On a side note, we got some great pictures of him wearing a coffee-filter on his head. In one of them, he gave Amanda this wonderfully psychotic face with his fists extended. Fists of fury, indeed.