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This weekend has been a real adventure.  Let me recount it.

First of all, my in-laws went on vacation to Cancun this week.  My mother-in-law (MIL) works for the Social Security Administration, has been working lots of extra hours recently and needed a break, so they took her vacation time and went to Cancun, leaving us in charge of the house and their cat, Skiddles.  We visited the house every evening as a family to eat dinner and take care of the cat.  We expect them back late tonight. 

Saturday afternoon, while I was busy with something, Boy, who was unshod, went out to the backyard to stand in the wagon and peer over the fence at the neighbor’s dogs.  What I didn’t know was that the boy had been pulling boards off that fence, boards that still had old nails in them.  The fence surrounding our house is ancient and still sags in spots.  Anyway, Boy stepped down onto a nail and came inside screaming and crying and bleeding all over the place.  I managed to keep my cool (I give large thanks to my fathers, in heaven and on earth for that), took Boy to the bathroom and washed his  injured right foot, which bled pretty constantly until the water in the tub (only about an inch or so in depth) was red, all the while telling him that I needed him to calm down.  He was alternately calm and hysterical, not that I blame him.  It was his first really serious pain and his first really serious injury (<sarcasm>I can’t wait until his first broken leg</sarcasm>).  Anyway, I found a ratty, but clean towel and wrapped it around his foot, then directed Princess, his sister, to hold the towel in place while I found the first aid kit.  I dressed the wound with a piece of gauze and a band-aid and, though he kept insisting it didn’t hurt (mainly because he didn’t want to go to the hospital), he refused to put it on the floor.  I checked Boy’s shot record to see when he’d had his last tetanus booster, since I knew that would dictate whether or not we went to the hospital.  His last booster, however, was in 2011, two years ago, so I did what I could for him and tried to take care of him without mothering him too much.  He didn’t like it when I went to change the bandage because I felt that I needed to make the wound bleed again to ensure that it wouldn’t get infected, then staunch the bleeding, add some Neosporin ointment and another bandage to make sure it stayed clean.  I told Boy he wasn’t supposed to ever go outside again without shoes on and never ever to pull boards off the fence again, either.  Needless to say, I’m sure I’ll have to be outside with him when he plays in the backyard from now on.  The poor kid wet his pants three times that day.

That evening, he was still trying to avoid putting his foot down.  Something told me that Boy was afraid he would get hurt again if he put that foot down.  Also, I finally got him to tell me the truth about the pain he was in by assuring him he wasn’t going to have to go to the hospital if his foot hurt him.  We did some stretching exercises meant to put his weight on his injured foot and I bought some larger bandages that would keep the wound clean and dry while it healed.  After that, we did some walking exercises, just like when he was learning to walk.  I led him away from anything he could support himself on and then invited him to walk to me.  When he did it, I praised him to the skies and suggested he walk to his father, which he did, albeit with his right foot tipped up so that he was walking on the heel.  By Sunday, we had him walking at speed again, so no potty accidents this time. 

Unfortunately, that was the day that I had my turn.  I was frying bacon for peanut butter, bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches (try it before you make a face), and pouring the grease into a glass jar which my MIL keeps in the fridge for that (I think).  It was uncomfortably close, though, so I went to move it, forgetting that it would be burning hot.  I burned the fingertips on my right hand, which I jerked back, jiggling the jar of hot grease and splattering it all over the top of my right hand and wrist.  Again, I thank God and my Boy Scout leader daddy for teaching me how to react in such a situation.  I ran cold water over the wound to stop it from cooking any further.  We cleaned up the mess and I finished cooking the bacon, pouring the rest of the grease into an empty vegetable can, instead of in the jar.  I kept running cold water over it, but I could feel it swelling up in spots and it really hurt, not to mention that it was a school night.  So, we hurried home and, while the kids were getting ready for bed, I checked online and in a book my mother bought me entitled Where’s Mom Now That I Need Her? Surviving Away From Home.  Both resources suggested that burns in the location I had experienced them and in as large an area, should be treated at the hospital.  So, after putting the kids to bed, I wrapped a damp kitchen towel around my burned hand and headed to the local ER to get help.

I was in the ER waiting area for about two hours or so, give or take.  In the room with me there were a number of parents with young kids and tiny babies and also a rather tired looking man who vomited on and off into a plastic potato salad container and drank water to keep his stomach from tying itself in knots when he heaved.  I sat and read until they called me in, and told the same story I’ve just told you to about five or six separate people (they were probably trying to find out if my husband hurt me or something).  Eventually, they put Silvadene cream on my burns, bandaged them up good and then discharged me.  I was exhausted by then and it was one in the morning, so I went straight home and went to bed. 

Anyway, now that you know what happened, I’m sure you agree with my earlier statement.  This weekend has been a real adventure.

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