Knives are dangerous. Kids in the kitchen are scary. These two things together make parenting a nervous adventure! We've been expanding kitchen skills as the kids seem a) responsible enough to handle and b) as they desire. The Boy-child and PrincessE have been using knives for a couple years now, to chop small vegetables and cut cheese and bread. We've mostly avoided injury.
Sunday afternoon The Boy-child was trying to get the plastic cover off a large brick of cheese, by using the knife he was planning on using to cut the cheese. This is something we've reviewed before, but he was hungry and in a hurry. Holding the plastic with his left hand, he sliced the packaging and also managed to cut open his middle finger.
I had my back to him and I heard him say, "Mom, I've cut myself." Oh he was calm. But when I turned around and saw him, bloody finger being held by the other hand, I knew it was bad. We put the cut under some cold water and wrapped it with a clean towel. When I had a chance to look at it, my suspicions were confirmed. He had a cut that was halfway around his finger, nail to pad. It was really unpleasant. At this point, I was struggling to keep myself under control. I really just wanted to cry with Noodle who was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, clutching her face, saying "I'm scared."
Me too, kiddo. Me too.
I swallowed hard and held it together. The Boy-child and I sat down, me holding his finger and keeping pressure on it, while Dadam tried to figure out where we should go for help. We didn't even know where to take him! I felt like urgent care might be quicker than the ER, so Dadam made appropriate insurance phone calls to be sure we were covered for urgent care.
Our conversation about who was taking him went like this:
Me - (out loud)You should take him. (mentally: I nearly threw up when I was rinsing his finger and I know that they are going to stitch this puppy and I don't know if I can hold it together.)
Him - You should take him.
Me - You should take him. (mentally: Dude, I don't think you understand. We have an audience, so I can't tell you that I'm afraid I'm going to loose my shit when they stitch him up. I'm afraid I can't do this.)
Him - I think you should take him. But I can take him. Do you want me to take him? I'll take him.
Me - Uh. Never mind. I'll take him. (mentally: You can do this. You're The Mom.)
(When we got home and had the post-game analysis, I discovered that Dadam had no clue I was feeling so upset. He felt like I would do a better job advocating with the medical staff, which is probably true and I do appreciate his vote of confidence. But at the time I wanted to just run away and hide.)
Off to Urgent Care, we waited for an hour, they looked at it and put in three stitches. That child sure doesn't mess around. That was one large slice. The most painful part was when they washed it with the iodine stuff. The numbing injection wasn't great either, but once that part was over we chatted about Harry Potter while the Doc did the stitching.
The Boy-child's doing fine now. He's a bit hampered by not being allowed to be his usual wild and crazy physical self, but it's just for a couple weeks and then he'll be right back to normal. It will be a wild scar though.
And I did it. Shew.