It Cut Me Deep
I tend to make dinner from scratch at least the majority of the evenings in our home. Sure, there’s pizza night and I use the occasional pre-made dinner from the frozen aisle in the grocery store. That, my friends, isn’t caving in it’s survival. The nights we have chicken tacos more than offset the one night a month we might have honey-bbq battered chicken fingers.
One of those homemade dinner nights this weekend was painful. Not figuratively, literally.
The bandaid up there on my thumb doesn’t look like much, but we’re a couple days past my stupidity.
I was cooking Spaghetti Bolognese for the kids and myself. I had cooked the meat, cut the carrots, onions and even added the spices up to this point. It was a can of mushrooms – the one time I hadn’t bought fresh ones – that got me.
I opened the can with an ancient can opener that I know I should have replaced eons ago . . . but I didn’t. A sliver of metal stuck to the lid of the same said mushrooms and I couldn’t open the can.
Now . . . the sensible, smart thing to do would have been to use a knife or – here’s a thought – buy a new can opener to do this. I, however, having successfully done this with hundreds of cans up to this point, decided to bend the lid back.
With my thumb.
It’s pretty amazing just how sharp the lid of a can is.
Using profanity akin to something Yosemite Sam would have spouted (but starting with “Aghhh! Son of a . . . ) I immediately put the thumb under water and looked around.
I don’t often see my oldest daughter’s face turn white and then get anxious but this was one of those times. This came after I asked for a towel or cloth. “I need one right now!”
The cut, you see, was really, really deep. I felt it go really far into the center of my thumb.
“There’s going to be a lot of blood, I need something to put pressure on,” was my follow-up line.
“Where is the gauze and tape,” she asked. When I had her check the medicine cabinet the medical supplies were gone. No bandaids, either.
“There’s cotton balls…”
“No, that will just get stuck in the cut.”
“I found two pieces of gauze,” my daughter informed me. So I looked around . . .
“Get me the duct tape,” I informed the other children. That grew derision and eye-rolling from the aforementioned oldest daughter.
“It’s that or I look for super glue, so which would you prefer?”
It’s not often you realize the convenience of a 20-year-old child who has matured to be quite mothering, helpful and caring . . . and has a driver’s license. I, however, was thrilled. The duct taped thumb seemed to have been the last straw and she jumped in the car and went to Walgreens and bought new gauze, medical tape and band-aids for me.
You never realize just how much you use your thumb . . . particularly for typing . . . until pain shoots all down the said appendage just when you hit the space-bar.
I also realized that as much as I care and worry about my children . . . they do the same about me. When I’ve been sick, coughing, tired, back hurt . . . they all fret and worry about what’s happening to me.
That being said . . . my stomach a little queasy from the pain in my thumb . . . once the bandages were applied my kids scattered.
I turned around, looked at the stove, and finished the dinner for the evening.