I know, I know, I’ve totally turned into one of those bloggers I hate. The ones more blah than blogger because they go weeks without posting.
OK, so in attempt to win you back, I have a gross story for you (because everyone loves gross stories, right?).
Last Thursday Jason was working from home (he usually works from home Thursdays) when he got called in for a meeting. Ben was at school (first grade! Can you believe it?) and Gray was following me around taking notes on what drives me more insane: when he flushes toy cars down the toilet when I’m on the phone with a client, or when he pulls my faxes off the fax machine as they come in and dances on them. He’s writing a self-help book for toddlers. The working title is “The Day My Mom Lost All Her Marbles: The Dissertation of a Journey to Crazy”, but we think it’s a little long.
Anyway, I was talking to a potential client about a listing presentation I was preparing for her and pacing around the house. (I pace, it’s weird, but I can’t not.) As I was walking through our bedroom I stubbed my toe on something under the edge of a giant pile of laundry that’s threatening to take over our bedroom. It hurt, but not that bad and I didn’t want to interrupt my conversation. I picked up the laundry and saw that it was the claw end of Jason’s hammer hiding under there in wait for my baby toe. I made a mental note to have a conversation with Jason about where his tools do and do not belong (and also to avoid the fact that the laundry I hadn’t done was an accomplice to the crime) and hobbled out into the living room.
I was still wrapped up in my conversation when Gray ran over, poked me in the thigh and said, “Mommy, what wrong? What wrong?” I looked down to where he was pointing on the floor and saw this on the floor under my right foot:
Yep, my stubbed foot was bleeding freely from some wound I couldn’t see under my foot. And, well, bleeding quite a bit. Like more than I’ve ever bled from a wound before.
I need to stop right here and explain that I’m not so good with injuries, mine, or anyone else’s. I’m actually pretty OK with pain in general, but blood, cuts, open wounds of any kind are pretty much my panic button. Jason’s always cutting or bashing parts of his body cooking or working on the car and I think my hysteria over the situation is probably the big reason he’s been to Urgent Care three times in the last year.
So, you can imagine that even though my foot didn’t hurt that bad, the sight of my life force draining out of the bottom of my foot onto our hardwood floors sent me from work mode to oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-die mode in nothing flat.
I pretty much hung up on my client and hopped into the kitchen to grab a towel, leaving a trail of blood drops the size of quarters behind me. It was like a CSI scene, I swear. There was spatter and I swear to God you could even tell which direction the victim, ahem, I mean I was moving by the length and shape of the blood drops! It kind of made we want to email CBS and say ‘Good job on the realistic looking crime scenes!’
At that point I was sitting on the floor of the kitchen with my phone still in hand and Gray standing next to me freaking out in his own cute two-year old way (What wrong, Mommy, what wrong?) and I had a little bit of a brain freeze freak out. I just didn’t really know what to do. I was worried that my toe was going to fall off or something and equally so that Gray was going to start finger painting with the gore on the walls… So I called Jason.
He was already annoyed in general with work and not thrilled about the idea of turning around mid-drive and coming home. But he did, and when he did, he just stood in the doorway for a minute and marveled at the scene. I wish we had better pictures of the room. We didn’t think to take them until most of the mess had been cleaned up and only the big puddle remained.
Jason cleaned my wound and said it wasn’t that bad (I couldn’t look, still too freaked out). He bandaged it and said we would look at it the next day. He started cleaning and I got up to help him. About two steps in to helping the bandage on my foot was soaked in blood and dripping on the floor. GROSS. I began freaking out anew and I think Jason did a little too. We decided I should go to Urgent Care (or as I like to refer to it, our second home).
Because Jason was busy with work I called my dad to see if he could take a quick break from work to drive me in. He did and we showed up, bloody towel wrapped around my foot and all. They got me in quickly, gave me a tetanus shot (EW, rusty hammer!), said it wasn’t that bad and re-bandaged it. The doctor told me to keep it up for a few hours. This time the bandage stayed white.
Later that evening after I was much calmer I actually looked at the cut for the first time. It’s about a centimeter long under my foot between my pinkie and next toe. It barely looks worse than a paper cut. So basically, I dragged my husband AND my father out of work for a tetanus shot.
Gray’s pretty sure his book’s ready to come to it’s conclusion.