Bandages and Best Intentions

In the long standing feud between man and mandolin, I found myself losing a battle this week.  I lost the battle in front of my children too, who were happily playing around my feet during dinner prep.

That’s the really troublesome part.  My preferred pain killer is excessive swearing, but with the kids around I have to control my initial reactions.  As I slammed my thumb through the blade, toddler on my foot at the time and five year old dancing around behind me, I shouted “Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!” It’s like cursing, but not.

This is the point that the children swarmed me. 

When they are hurt, an adult rushes to their side to asses damage and decide on what aide is needed.  So they model the behavior they have seen time and time again.  In this instance, that meant blocking my path to the bathroom.

“Daddy, are you okay or are you hurt?” The firstborn asked.

“Bugger! Ow,” I replied, trying to navigate around the two little people doing everything in their power to be helpful.

“Daddy, you hurt?” The toddler echoed.

“Yep, gotta get to the bathroom, guys” I said.

They were unmoved until their mother told them to let me pass.  Thank goodness they at least listen to her.  I’d otherwise be doomed.

My wife helped bandage me up and she finished dinner as I kept my hand over my head to help slow the bleeding.  The night went on and I realized just how often I use my thumb to do things.  These realizations were accompanied by stabbing pains shooting through my hand as my new tip-of-the-finger gill let me know to stop touching things.

The night trekked onward to bedtime when the whole family joined together to read some bedtime stories.  The real highlight of the bed time reading process? My bandaged thumb.

“Sadness?” The toddler asked, pointing at the colorful bandage.

“Yep, I have Sadness,” I said, giggling at the thought of him having no idea what the sentence could also mean.  I am going to have really watch my wording when the kids understand things.

The toddler proceeded to grab my thumb. I shrieked.

The firstborn stepped into to free me.  “No, no, buddy. Don’t grab Daddy’s thumb,” he said.  The patronizing tone is very much a by product of his upbringing and I apologize to anyway he finds intellectually inferior during his school days.

The firstborn proceeded to grab my thumb in an attempt to wrestle if free of the toddler’s grasp.

I was afraid that due to the commotion, I would bleed through the bandage causing a horrific scene involving a beloved Inside Out character going all stigmata on us.  That did not come to fruition though.  Just me whimpering and wishing for a swift end to bed time stories.


Thanks for reading!


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