Lip-syncing to the Furniture

L, who, much like her father, is the physical embodiment of grace, poise and dexterity, decided this afternoon to take a flying leap at an end table.  She assaulted it head on, choosing to spring her attack on the defenseless sharp corner edge using her fearsome and awesome lower left lip.  Much to everyone's surprise, L came out the worse of the two.  What must have been two gallons of blood and three urgent-care hours later, all we had to show for it were some somewhat morbid spots on the carpet and a rather lop-sided fat lip.  No concussion.  No skull fracture.  Not even a creepy stitch.

I felt extremely gypped.  Given the amount of worry-capital we expended mopping up her mouth and looking into securing a medevac helicopter, we should have gotten a better emotional payout.  Now don't get me wrong.  I don't want life-scarring debilitation or horrific maiming.  No, that would be extreme.  But when you spend three hours in an urgent care waiting room with a melting ice pack made from paper towels and congealed blood, you want to know that your time and worry have been well-spent.  You need a viable souvenir. Something mildly traumatic, perhaps, but essentially fully-recoverable.  Ideally, a severed-but-surgically-reattached small toe or something like that, but such rewards are few and far between.  And anyway, we knew that was too much to ask, since, of course, her shoes were inconveniently on at the time.  But we sure would have been pleased with a nice dozen or so loops of catgut running the full span of her lower lip.