Last night while I was making dinner the inevitable happened and I cut myself with a big serrated knife. I’m honestly surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, during those first couple of hazy, sleep deprived months when I was so exhausted I couldn’t remember my own name and had no business opening a can of soup let alone using the stove and the oven and sharp objects. But last night, despite being fairly well rested and getting 99% of the meal done without incident, I sliced open my finger while cutting the hamburger rolls. (Seriously, how stupid is that? They sell pre-cut rolls, right next to the non-cut ones and if I hadn’t insisted on buying the fancy onion kind I would have saved myself $2.00 and quite a bit of pain.)

After standing in the kitchen and yelling for a few minutes I ended up lying on the floor taking deep breaths to keep myself from passing out and hitting my head. I don’t react well to blood when it’s my own (something that runs in our family – Hi Dad!) and although the cut certainly didn’t need stitches if I fainted and hit the counter or the floor I could easily end up in the ER.

So I moaned and whimpered and E ran to get me a band-aid and came back with the hydrogen peroxide because I needed to “clean out the wound”.

Me: NO WAY IN HELL AM I POURING PEROXIDE ON ANYTHING,
E: Yes. You have to wash it out.
Me: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO STAY AWAAAAAAAAAY.
E: You know, you’re kind of a wuss about pain.
Me: You can’t call me a wuss, you threw a fit because you stubbed your toe last week. And…and…AND…
E: Oh I knew this was coming.
Me: AND. I GAVE BIRTH. You cannot call someone who has given birth a wuss. EVER.
E: You had to go and pull the birth card didn’t you?
Me: The birth card never expires. It’s good FOREVER. And don’t you forget it.