Monday, April 6, 2009


Last Saturday night, Diana was chasing Elijah around nakedly upstairs while I prepared a mildly delicious dinner. Normally, I sacrifice a lemon to the knife gods before I begin, but I was distracted by Grover’s sad eyed sulking at not being able to bite Eli. So wouldn’t you know, I sliced the bajeezus out of my finger. I heard the distinct “tink” of Asian steel hitting bone.

Diana and Eli arrived shortly after for nigh nigh kisses. She found me standing at the sink with my life literally pouring down the drain. Knowing Diana has a weak stomach for blood, I thrust my gnarled finger at her face. She recoiled with the appropriate amount of horror for me.

As she ran, I called her back. In my hazy blood loss mind, I thought this was an opportunity. This could be Eli’s first experience with gushing fluids. Besides pee pee. I fuzzily thought that if he saw my goey blood, maybe he’d become a doctor in the future. Or maybe an ambulance chasing lawyer.

So I knelt down and displayed my horrible, horrible finger to my baby boy. He took one look and said, “TV?” No, no TV. Sheesh.

But I left an impression. The next morning and throughout the day, Eli would toddle over and inquire about my bandaged finger. I’d display it for his inspection. He’d say, “Ouch?” and then grab my finger tightly before I could escape.

Sometime later I’d awake, vaguely aware that some terrible thing had happened and wondering why I was covered in stale Cheerios. I’d see Eli toddle over and say, “Ouch?”

And I’d display my finger for his inspection.

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