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Unlike Jack, who each and every time we work on the house manages to hammer his thumb or slice open some exposed skin, I escaped any injury for three years. I think my pristine safety record caused me to become a bit cocky while at the same time, I worried about Jack’s progressively more severe accidents. I was just waiting for him to walk inside and tell me the Sawzall had slipped and he’d mistakenly hacked his arm off. I am glad to report that hasn’t happened yet.
My first injury occurred while we pulled up the wood flooring. I was pounding out the nails and barely felt the tiny pin prick. A sliver of blood seeped out of the skin and I almost felt proud of myself for shedding a drop. Proud enough to take a photo:
I’d been working hard all morning, enjoying watching Evelyn and Claire play in the shade while I finished the last dozen pieces of wood flooring. Gripping a very new, very sharp wood chisel to grind the petrified dirt out of the grooves, I was being extremely cautious. Then, SLIP!
After coddling myself for a moment, I took a look at my darling pinky finger to see how bad it was. I was pretty sure I hadn’t severed it right off. Phew. It wasn’t dangling by a layer of skin or anything. Fortunately, it was just a flesh wound and ironically, not from the chisel. I whacked it right on the corner of the wood.
She always tells me a tiger scratched her when one of the cats takes a swat at her. Our band aid supply was running low but I indulged her and luckily, it stopped her tears.
Next, I stepped on the dead stub of a sapling and got a lovely blood blister right on the pad of my foot. Now that stung every time I took a step.
All joking aside, I’m very grateful that all of our injuries have been flesh wounds. They smart and sting like the dickens but we’ve avoided anything life-threatening. That’s exactly how I’d like to keep it.
One Response
OUCH!