My mother and grandmother were well known for not being the most graceful of women, and both my sister and I have inherited that trait. Trips, stumbles, and pratfalls were not unusual in our lives, and I can't tell how many times I fell UP the open-backed stairs that we had in the house where I grew up. (HATED those things) A favorite story in our family folklore is one afternoon when my mother, grandmother, sister and I were eating lunch at the Magic Pan creperie that used to exist in Woodies Department store (both gone to the world now), and my mother had reached across the table to swat me for somesuch or other, and as she pulled her arm back across the table, she caught the straw of her pina colada (and we raise our eyebrows at wine on playdates? Puhleez) and dumped the entire thing over into her open purse. It was an amazing feat of self-control to hold in the giggles, but we knew the consequence if we didn't, so my sister and I managed to hold it together by not looking at each other and studiously perusing the menu. This is a perfect illustration of our startling tendency to be our own worst enemies in matters of grace and dignity.
So, it comes as no surprise, then, that I was brought low by a hard-crusted french roll and a terrifically sharp serrated knife. The kids were home both Monday and Tuesday this week because of the holiday and a gratuitous "in service" day tacked on top, and Tuesday Trout asked me to cut a french roll and put jelly on it for her as a snack. Our regular bread knife was in the dishwasher, so I pulled out this:
It says "Eversharp" and boy is it ever. Well, I lined it up on that french roll and pulled it one time to score the roll, and the blade kind of glanced off the roll and sliced a quarter-inch gash into the index finger of my left hand.
I dropped a rare f-bomb in hearing of my kids (only rare coming from me, of course; BigDaddyFish has no such compunction when it comes to that word) while I shoved my hand under running water, which only made the flap of skin vacillate wildly and cause more pain, which caused more swearing. Blood was gushing out of my finger while my children stared wide-eyed at their lunatic mother cursing like a sailor.
Then they sprang into action.
"Is it bleeding, Mom? Is it gushing?" Trout asked. I could merely nod. "Well, then, you need a band-aid, Mommy."
"Mom, you can have one of my Superman band-aids," chimed in Little Man.
So I was duly tended to with band-aids, curious stares into the gushing finger and resultant bloody paper towel, and kisses from Sunny to make it all better. I'd love to show you a picture, but I cannot for the life of me find the macro setting for my camera. Trust me, it isn't pretty - your stomach thanks me.
But because I have that klutz gene, there was more to come. I have since ripped it open twice, once picking Sunny up after a shower to put her on my bed, and once putting on my bra, because it is at the exact point on the side of my index finger that I use to line up the 9,000 rows of hooks and eyes needed to hold these things up. It has been quite the challenge to keep it covered, dry, and most of all away from the perma-snot Nemo is sporting as he works on getting about 6 teeth to come in at once. The sucker hurts like hell, kinda like a papercut, but with more stinging and abuse.
My grandmother and mother used to joke that they were going to form the Klutzes Anonymous club for those of us needing some lessons in preserving our dignity and possibly first aid. Who among you is brave enough to join me? What klutzy things have you done lately?